Olly Olly Oxen Free
by RuthieGreen
Summary: 1892 What happens when Murdoch, Brackenreid & Crabtree have their very first case together? This is an "Origins" story of a very important turning point in the lives of our heroes & the start of their working relationships. I hope you like details & humor & there is a mystery in there too! See my "Deviation" Ch 7 for back-story context. Thanx Maureen Jennings for these characters.
1. Chapter 1

" _Olly Olly Oxen Free_ "

 **Everything tale has a beginning. This is an "Origins" explanation set in a delicious blank spot in the "story" I could not resist.** Disclaimer: _I took huge liberties with the geography of the Don River and Don Valley—please suspend disbelief if you know the area; I murdered_ _it_ _as well for purposes of this story_

 **Please read, enjoy the mystery & the characters. Reviews and correspondence encouraged, with my endless appreciation! **

**Chapter 1**

 **7:30 am Monday June 27** **th** **, 1892**

The constable slicked down his brown hair with a moistened hand and rubbed one black shoe then the other against the back of his opposing trousered leg to raise a shine. This was going to be his first day at Station House No. 4 on Wilton Street, so he wanted to make a good impression, having gone to considerable trouble to secure this particular posting. Helmet firmly in place and tin lunch bucket and paper bag under one arm, box of books in another, he pushed through the double doors and down a few steps to greet the on-duty officer, one Constable John Hodge, barricaded behind a huge wooden desk arrangement in the station house lobby. Several people were already sitting on a long bench to the left side of the space, waiting their turn to speak with the constabulary.

"Welcome Constable Crabtree!" Constable Hodge's gentle, whiskered face split into a grin. "You're a little early. Good on you! Inspector Brackenreid will be along in a moment and his inspection and the morning report is at eight o'clock sharp." He spied the items Crabtree was carrying. "The lockers are in the basement, down to the hall on your left. You'll be told which desk you will be sharing."

George Crabtree, slender and in his mid-twenties, smiled in return, with a wink in his mild eyes. "Thank you. And I have a little something _for you_." Crabtree plucked the bag from under his arm and placed it on the high counter, pushing it forward with a finger. He had made Hodge's acquaintance while scoping out Station House No. 4 and learned that the man loved his sweets. German immigration to Toronto inevitably brought _Schnecken,_ or sticky-buns, so Crabtree was able to locate a bakery open at 6 in the morning. He thought he owed Hodge for some assistance in getting the chance to work at No. 4, and since he always paid his debts, the treat was a thank you. _The smell of the yeast-dough was divine,_ he acknowledged to himself, but as he only had enough coins to buy one, he let his stomach rumble on, promising it bread and cheese with beer at noon, hoping the guttural sounds would not embarrass him.

Hodge's eyes lit up as he inhaled cinnamon before rolling the bag back up and reluctantly placing it out of harm's way. "Ah… I'll be having this with my tea. Thank you, much obliged." In his early fifties, John Hodge was content with his place as a fixture at Station House No. 4, having been there the longest of any man, and thought himself a good judge of character- reinforced by the Inspector's hiring of this new constable (in part at his suggestion) and now by the appearance of a pastry in acknowledgement of that boon.

Crabtree adjusted his tunic top and belt with brass clasp, walking into the belly of the station house, surveying the setup of the building since being rehabilitated in 1889: A large central open working area with multiple desks, then an obviously nicely-appointed office to the right, belonging to Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, separated by half-glass walls and neat lettering identifying the occupant. To the left was a twin of the inspector's office, which presently seemed to be a jumble of books, boxes and mismatched furniture, over which presided a battered wooden roll top desk shoved against a large window. The glass door to the space was carelessly scraped clean of any script.

Crabtree felt a little smug: He was already envisioning the exploits that awaited him, much grander than his previous two years as a constable. _No more endless night patrols, putting pebbles on door knobs or rousting drunks. No more scut work just guarding crime scenes or, worse yet, searching disgusting middens with a hoe looking for evidence. Never again! I have_ _landed a position as the newly-promoted, Constable (second-class), on the day shift_ _eHe_ _at Station House No. 4!_ _This is the place where the majority of eventual detectives, inspectors and even Chief Constables originally laboured before rising in the ranks, and where I, as an ambitious man, will find my place._

No one was at work yet except for Hodge and man in a modern suit whom Crabtree assumed was A.D. William Murdoch, hunched at the left-hand battered desk. Crabtree restrained himself from disturbing the other man, and instead found the stairs and descended to the basement to check out the locker room, earth closet and jail cells before reporting for duty, taking in every square inch and imagining how his career will commence from this day forward.

# # #

" _And who the Bloody Hell are you?"_ Inspector Brackenreid said kindly enough to an unfamiliar face in the lineup for morning inspection and report. He was distracted for a moment by a set of crates leaning against a wall that had not been there the night before, but returned his attention to the men.

"This here is Constable George Crabtree, just transferred over from No. 1, Inspector. You approved that last week…" Hodge stepped in, introducing the new man to the rest of the crew. Brackenreid peered closer at the oval face, large light brown eyes and crooked smile of the newcomer. "Ah, yes. I do remember the interview. Welcome to Station House No. 4, young Crabtree. We run a tight ship around here, so look sharp."

"And here is your tea, Inspector," answered Crabtree, having already gotten the word that the first order of business for the low man on the totem pole was putting the kettle on… _Not that I plan to be there for long,_ he thought, but offered a supplicant's smile to his superior while being welcomed by the rest of the men. The tea or the smile appeared to mollify the Inspector… _So far so good._

"Gentlemen. The news for the day is thus: expect a rise in break-ins and other crimes of opportunity. The weather is sweltering with more heat predicted—people will leave their doors and windows open and will be surprised, simply surprised mind you, that other individuals will pilfer from them," Brackenreid announced with broad Yorkshire vowels, and received a general chuckle from his audience. "Also, more domestic arguments as the heat gets on people's nerves, and more drunken-disorderly complaints as people drink to cool down. The cells are full this morning and need sorting out. City-wide there's been another beating death of a woman, a domestic I believe, another drowning of someone who probably wanted to cool off in the water and forgot they couldn't swim, and a robbery in Parkdale," more snickers were heard. "Oy! What's so funny?"

"Where else would you rob—but where the money is!" Constable Blake observed.

"Well, quite. And I got this message from some enterprising copper casting an awfully wide net – the child of a society couple in Buffalo is missing, and they are looking for the ex-nanny—one Mary Maude Burdick for questioning. I will post her description on the board." Brackenreid scanned his men and liked what he saw this morning. "Crabtree, you pair with Blake today," he gestured, "and keep the tea coming," getting a quick 'Yes, sir!' and nod from the new man. The inspector dismissed the men for the day and eyed the odd pile of boxes again.

Murdoch was standing at attention off to the side, trying to surreptitiously catch the inspector's eye. Once a month for the past six months, he had assigned himself the task of advocating with the inspector to end the farce of his status with the constabulary. He did not understand why he was being blocked; he was mild tempered, a hard worker, conscientious, helpful, professional and followed every rule to the letter. His conviction rate, even as an "acting detective", rivalled anyone else's. He was confident of his worth, without hubris, and thought he had been patient enough.

Brackenreid saw Murdoch lingering and grimaced. _Bloody Hell! It is too damned early for this._ He sighed. ' _Sooner started, sooner done_ ,' as his regimental captain would have said. He'd been thinking more of the old codger recently, seeking inspiration for his own problems with life in middle management. He barked a crisp,"Murdoch! In my office!" and marched ahead, assuming he would be followed.

Rounding his desk, Brackenreid set the tea aside and removing his light grey frock-coat, took his seat and looked at the man before him. Murdoch stood stiffly, his own dark jacket firmly in place and likely to remain so despite the heat, arms pinned behind his back in his usual stance. They stared at each other a bit, before the inspector blinked. _Uncanny how he usually gets me to do that first,_ Brackenreid griped to himself in disgust. He held up a hand. "Before you ask, the short answer is ' _Yes.'_ There is another opening for detective at Station House No. 5, though why anyone would want to muck around way out there is beyond me. And, _no_ , I have no word if you will be appointed full detective here, there, or any other place any time soon."

"But, _sir_ … I have been "acting" detective for almost 2 years. I am already the longest serving "A.D." in the history of the constabulary. I have no permanent place here and you lend me out to fill in all over the other precincts…" William Murdoch ran his argument calmly and logically as he always did, listing his accomplishments and the cases he has closed.

Brackenreid cut him off by slamming his hand on the desk, jostling the tea cup. "I don't lend you, the Chief Constable assigns you, and I am the one who got you another bob and a half a week for your troubles from my own budget, so don't say I never did a dammed thing for you." The inspector saw Murdoch wince automatically at the invective as Murdoch, famously, did not approve of cursing. _Bullocks!_ He sighed that out exasperatedly, and noticed the wince again.

Truth be told, Brackenreid privately felt badly for the man. Neither fish nor fowl, not a constable but not a detective- to the point where even the inspector never used a title, just barked his last name to indicate Murdoch's non-place in the hierarchy. Chief Constable Stockton seemed content with the current arrangement and none of the other inspectors quite took a shine to Murdoch either; not in so many words. _"Too stiff, too detailed, too methodical,"_ were the complaints. _Or just plain too slow!_ Brackenreid guessed, a _nd probably too Catholic to boot. Or too smart._ Brackenreid had been around long enough to recognize that some men are intimidated by their intellectual betters. The dilemma was that Murdoch was very, _very,_ good at the job of detective, even if his methods were difficult to get a handle on and rubbed some people the wrong way. For instance that mess of an office across the bull pen area was a sore point. Murdoch averred he was not comfortable claiming the space unless it was actually going to be "his," so it was a sorry catchall cleared just enough for a desk and an area for interviewing and examining evidence, _barely._ Brackenreid suspected some not so subtle _cheekiness_ was involved as well.

The men at Station House No. 4 however had gradually come to defer to Murdoch, acknowledging "Sir" and "Mister," generally "Detective", having dropped the "acting" or "A.D." prefix long ago. Never the less it still made for some awkwardness.

"I told you before, Murdoch. That's what you get for rising so quickly through the ranks."

"No more rapidly than you, sir…"

Brackenreid just spoke louder. "And the city is broke. Why would they pay you more to do what you are already doing, and so well, for much less?" Brackenreid hated the argument as soon as it was out of his mouth. He sighed again, seeing the already rigid man in front of him snap even tighter. "Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'll have a chat with some people for you, but don't hold your breath." Murdoch's thin smile was all the acknowledgement he was likely to get. Wanting to change the subject, he asked about the boxes taking up space in the bull pan.

At that Murdoch became animated, the tussle with his superior momentarily set aside. "Yes, sir. I have devised a method for furnishing fresh and cold water for the station house rather than having to use the stand pump, especially considering the risk of cholera and other diseases…." He a-hemmed. "That means instead of allowing beer to be drunk, we can have clean water…" The inspector grunted, thinking Murdoch will lose some of that good will he built up with the men when he proposes to forbid a pint with lunch. _Good God! How did I get saddled with a tea-totaling prig of a papist?_ Brackenreid put his chin in his hand and nodded while the other man prattled on…..


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Late Tuesday June 28** **th** **/ Early Wednesday June 29** **th**

"Constable Crabtree is it?" Murdoch asked. Nighttime had done nothing to diminish the heat of the day and it was pitch black with no moon as he surveyed the scene before him by lantern light. He noted the location of the body which was lying awkwardly on its side in a narrow space between two buildings.

"Yes, George Crabtree, pleased to meet you more formally, er… sir." Crabtree took the measure of the man in front of him: although it was hard to tell underneath the layers of clothing, he saw a trim, athletic-looking man, with intelligent brown eyes, who was neat, serious, focused; everything his reputation indicated. Then Crabtree's eyes got wider when he saw Murdoch make some sort of blessing gesture and recognized it as something known in the vernacular as the sign of the cross. _The man is one of_ those _?_

Crabtree was momentarily taken aback before righting himself. "Doctor Johnson has been called and Constable Blake is gathering men for the Inquest." Crabtree flipped through some notes he made. "The victim has no identification. He was found in the alleyway roughly forty minutes ago by a Mr. Forge, over there, who was coming home via this short cut…" Crabtree pointed to the man. "The victim smells like he was drunk. His clothing is disarrayed. Looks like he was rolled for his money and died."

Murdoch looked up abruptly. "We know nothing of the kind, Constable. We need to consider if it was an accident, deliberate murder, suicide, or even robbery gone wrong as you suggested. His wounds, as you can see here on his face and hands may be from a beating as well as a fall. Look up if you will and see if you can determine if there is a window opening he could have come from… from _that_ building I would guess." He gestured at the brick structure to his right. "Then report back to me what you have determined."

With that Crabtree was dismissed, but he hung back a bit while he watched Murdoch work, pulling out all manner of small helpful objects from his jacket pockets, taking a tape measure to angles and distances and writing the numbers down, then sketching the scene with more numbers and finally copying the visible wounds before turning his attention to the ground around the victim and the hard surface of the alleyway. Crabtree realized guiltily he had stood there for a long time and raced up into the building to do as he was told before he got caught out lollygagging. _But it was worth it,_ he thought. _That was more instructive than anything I ever got from old Detective Morris._

# # #

The examination of the body for the coroner's inquest was formed and dismissed with grumblings all around. Dr. Arthur Johnson presided as six men were rounded up to inspect the body and the scene. The coroner allowed the body to be transported to the main city morgue, only because the equipment was superior to that in his own surgical suite, and certainly _not_ because Murdoch insisted, or so he told the men who came with the corpse wagon. It passed by no one that in this heat the doctor did not want a putrefying corpse anywhere near his personal environs, and at least there was a cooler in the main morgue. Since he was already up, Dr. Johnson agreed to begin the preliminaries before getting some rest and finishing the finer analysis later. It was nearly dawn before the alleyway was cleared and everyone went home or on about their business, with Constable Blake emphasizing to each man his duty to the law.

At Station House No. 4, Blake and Crabtree brought in the material requested by Murdoch and retrieved clothing from the body when Dr. Johnson was done with it, taking all of it to Murdoch's workspace.

Murdoch was busy arranging pages on the wall with long pins, and setting neatly labeled spaces on a wooden table for what the constables presented. "Thank you very much, gentlemen. That will be all." Murdoch was polite rather than abrupt, another welcome change from Crabtree's previous experience.

The men started to leave but Crabtree was drawn back to Murdoch who was pouring over his notes. The day had been exciting and he did not want to go home. "Excuse me, er… Detective Murdoch, sir. What is all this?"

Murdoch looked up and adjusted his gaze. "Constable. This is how I am sorting out the evidence. As you can see," he gestured to the wall, "I have four scenarios: murder, murder in course of robbery or some other action such as a fight, accident and suicide. Underneath each I will place the facts that either support or exclude that hypothesis."

"High-poth-ee what, sir?"

"Hypothesis—it means the guess I am making, following logical principles." Murdoch was tired but always enjoyed a curious mind. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Blake nodded a farewell and was slipping away to go home. Crabtree did not look worn out and seemed interested, so Murdoch shrugged and continued. "Do you want to go over it with me now? I sometimes find it useful to talk a case through while writing it out."

In the next hour Murdoch gestured and lectured non-stop, but by the time Constable Hodge arrived to replace the nighttime desk sergeant at seven o'clock in the morning, the whole case was laid out with questions to be answered and lines of investigation pre-determined. They had already decided that falling out of the only possible window accidentally was unlikely because of the arc of the fall—he had come through the opening with too much force—such as if he was pushed or jumped outward.

"And you did that all with mathematics?" Crabtree was still shaking his head in amazement.

Murdoch plowed on. "Dr. Johnson will be able to tell us a more accurate time of death, and will tell us for certain if the wounds, or at least most of them, are from a fall or a fight. I predict from a fall, based on the injuries being primarily confined to one side of the body. It could still be murder or suicide. That does not however rule out someone robbing the body afterwards."

"So what shall we investigate today?" asked Crabtree.

Murdoch checked his notes. "We need to find out who he was. Why was he there? Did he have a family? Where did he live? Who were his enemies with motive to kill him? What possibly could have happened that he would be so despairing to self-murder?"

"If he was suicidal, would he have known that going out that window would kill him?" 

"Very good question, constable. If he were intoxicated his judgement may have been clouded. The night guard you interviewed said the building was half finished and hosted occasional squatters…We can also ask the beat constable for that neighborhood what he knows about it." He went over to the pile of clothing. "His clothes were sturdy, well-made, not those of a gentleman but not those of a labourer either, despite the grease or oil stains on the jacket. We have some ticket stub scraps in his pockets, a few pennies—looks like American coppers—and some straw and fibers to examine, but they may have come from anywhere. Shoes are strong but dirty. Could be a man who recently fell on hard times. We need more witnesses to the actual death and I need to know more about what Dr. Johnson has to say in order to narrow the search."

"Constable Blake said he dismissed one man from the Inquest panel because that man said he thought he recognized the victim, with hair that length and so light-colored, from a local pub. I have that name, sir, perhaps I can conduct the interview for you today?"

Murdoch checked his watch. "We have been up all night. I cannot authorize additional overtime, er… not even for these last few hours. Oh, I am terribly sorry…" he said when he saw the constable's face fall.

"That's all right sir. I'll check with Constable Hodge and with the Inspector. Thank you. Most enlightening," and beat a hasty retreat from the glassed-in office. Crabtree noticed officers filing in for inspection and report, so slid over to one of the men he struck a friendly note with from the day before. "Francis. Thanks for the favour," he said with a smile.

Constable Francis Franklin whispered back. "No problem, George. Staying in bed with the missus works for me. Did it go all right with Murdoch? If so, you can switch shifts with me any time. Go home and get some sleep."

# # #

After splashing some water on his face and cleaning up a bit, William Murdoch changed his shirt and checked his appearance, satisfied his eyes were not bloodshot and his dark hair was under control. His life was circumscribed by his work, his cycle, reading scientific and technical material, and church; until recently he was satisfied with that. So far this week, only work was getting any attention, and if he were honest, work was absorbing more and more without the usual compensation of feeling like he was inhabiting the life he wanted to lead. _No matter, there is a puzzle to solve._ He looked at himself again critically, wiped any trace of exasperation off his face, and went back upstairs to give the official morning report to Inspector Brackenreid and other officers with facts about the overnight victim and investigation's status. Two constables were assigned to re-interview the witnesses and four more were held back to canvas the area as soon as the coroner ascertained time of death.

Accomplishing that, Murdoch retrieved his hat, and walked over to the City Morgue across the way from the back entrance to Station House No. 4. The city fathers built the place in 1886 but had still not seen fit to consolidate the business of police forensics in one location nor appoint a single, head city coroner. He sighed. _The city is broke, that's always the excuse._ The one advantage of working out of Station House No. 4 was the close proximity of the City Morgue, so at least for his cases he usually got the bodies moved there.

Dr. Johnson was just finishing up as William walked down the ramp to the autopsy bay. "Murdoch," he greeted, refusing the honourific of "Detective", "Constable" or even "Mister" for that matter.

"Good Morning, Doctor. What have you so far?" Murdoch was too tired to be baited, and too weary of the game. He watched as Johnson uncovered the body.

"Well, Murdoch. The victim is male, Caucasian, five foot ten and one hundred fifty pounds. I'd say he was approximately twenty five to thirty years old. Scandinavian in origins judging by the hair colour. As you suspected, he was quite intoxicated. Rye whisky I suspect, consumed for quite a while, right up till just before death. And he was killed by the fall—the right side of his skull is bashed in, consistent with hitting the pavement, with a lot of blood. His right shoulder and hip are also shattered from contact with the ground. I'd say he died nearly instantly. It looks to me he was moved after death, at least enough for someone to have thoroughly searched his pockets, so the way he was found was not exactly the way he hit the street. I think a chain was torn off his neck," he indicated red streaks on the victim's throat and an indentation or mark of a pendant of some kind. "What I find to be more interesting, is not all his wounds are consistent with the fall—if you will notice his hands—those gouges are either from labour, using his hands to lift or grip something, or from a fight—perhaps defensive gestures, or bracing himself? And this scrape on his face is different as well. Perhaps a day old for all of these wounds?"

"Do you have time of death, doctor?"

"I would say around one A.M. last night, give or take thirty to sixty minutes. The jostling of his body post-mortem puts off using blood pooling evidence more exactly."

"Yes… it seems he was likely robbed after death and then the people who found him turned him over again. So if the body was found at nearly two-fifteen, there is a window of approximately midnight to just before he was found. Do you have stomach contents and the rest?" Murdoch asked without hope. Arthur Johnson was one of the better physicians who rotated as coroner, and that was the problem really – coroner was a part time job with relatively low civic remuneration, and constantly at odds with Murdoch's high expectations for speed and thoroughness. Neither man particularly enjoyed having a case with the other, but a grudging mutual tolerance was in place.

"No. I do not. But you have my cause of death, catastrophic head wound. Manner of death is by falling from a height of not less than fifteen feet. You will have to determine if it is murder or suicide." He held up his hand. "I have seen enough accidental falls, the position on the ground looked wrong to me for that, and I don't need a formula to tell me." Murdoch let the pointed comment pass. While speaking, Dr. Johnson wheeled the body to the cooler, and Murdoch helped him get the gurney in and secured. "I am going home for some sleep, and see my patients. I will be back for the rest probably tomorrow. I will schedule the full inquest for Friday at ten o'clock in the morning, if that suits you. You may tell Officer Blake to call the six men back for that time and date. Good morning." With that the doctor picked up his bag, settled his hat and headed out the door.

"Thank you very much, doctor." Murdoch called after the doctor's retreating back, and stood there for a while, gathering his thoughts. While Dr. Johnson was giving his tour of the body, William was making his own visual assessment. The body was well-tended: nails trimmed, teeth in decent shape, well-muscled, well fed and with no obvious occupational markers he could see. His shoes had fit him—no blisters or calluses. No evidence of past injuries, diseases or scars on his skin, or of flea bites or parasites. He did not obviously appear to have been a long-time alcoholic, although visual inspection was not the most accurate way to determine that.

Murdoch was, however leaning now against suicide because although the doctor did not mention it, it looked as if the man had worn a cross, more specifically a crucifix, around his neck. Unconsciously he touched his own chest where, underneath vest and shirt, there was a very old, now faded scar, caused by his twelve –year- old- self getting too close to a heat source, resulting in the hot metal of his own crucifix creating a nasty, bubbling burn when it landed on his skin. While Catholics _did_ suicide, it was not that common. He did not get everything he wanted, but more than he usually got from a first autopsy report, so he was satisfied.

Back in the station house Murdoch reported the time of death as a window between midnight and two AM. He explained: "The victim was drinking; so pubs, places to obtain rye whisky, known haunts of alcoholics within a short radius are first on the list as well as the local beat constable." He ran down the possible lines of investigation and through the current evidence smoothly. "The victim could not have gotten that far on foot before death. Working in pairs, please set off to start knocking on doors, walking in an outward pattern from where the body was found, per my usual protocol."

The men took their assignments without complaint; accepted as well, how Murdoch directed them to proceed. Inspector Brackenreid observed all of that from his office, content it was well-executed. He did not expect Murdoch to go home to sleep so was surprised when the man poked his head in saying he was going out. "Going for some breakfast then?" Brackenreid asked.

"No, sir. To church." With that he took off, leaving the inspector scratching his head, sure he'd never understand how Murdoch ticked. A phone message from the Chief Constable about Inspector Knox at Station House No. 5 was wearing a hole in the inspector's pocket. He knew enough about Knox to know that as tight with a hay-penny he was, he also liked things to run smoothly and efficiently. _So there was less work for the old sod,_ Brackenreid assessed. _He just lost his detective, so would want a new one in place as soon as possible, probably Murdoch to transfer over in the same role as acting detective_. _That means he wants Murdoch because he thought he could get him at a cheaper price. So the question would become: did Station House No. 4 want him too?_

Brackenreid glanced at his wall clock. It was not yet late enough in the day for a drink, even for him. The phone call would have to wait then….


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **Afternoon, Wednesday June 29** **th**

When Murdoch returned from his trip to St. Michael's where the priest gave him ideas about ethnic attendance at mass, and from the morgue to gather the rest of Dr. Johnson's report, Constable Crabtree was reading out- loud from the Toronto Gazette in the common area, having a large audience of fellow officers for his renditions of the so-called comic strips. The constable topped it off by reading the local agony column, getting laughs for his interpretations. Murdoch frowned, especially seeing the Inspector was lurking at the margin of the crowd, and disappointed that it was George Crabtree that was the center of the spectacle. He had recognized in Constable Crabtree a curiosity that, at heart, mirrored his own, even if it was unformed and undisciplined. _I thought better of him…_

His face fell into a scowl. _Why?_ he asked himself morosely. _Why,_ _when you had the entire summary of important news of the day in Toronto and the world, discoveries and events brought to you in detail from far flung places by the power of the telegraph, all spread out for you in an easy to carry format, nearly in the palm of your hand… Why would you instead use that instrument of unparalleled potential information and education to take puerile amusements?_

He shook his head again sourly… _Might as well be reading about cats jumping through hoops…_ and went directly to his work space muttering to himself, only to be abruptly halted by a disturbance in his path. Perpendicular to the window in a newly cleared space rested a large double-sided chalk board! The scowl vanished to be replaced with a surprised grin of deep pleasure. _Why did I not think of that?_ Murdoch was still admiring it when the inspector came up behind him.

"Ah, Murdoch. Back from confession are you?" The inspector liked to needle Murdoch and was still jolly from having a laugh with the lads, even if he did have to break it up and yell at them to get back to work. He stuck a thumb out. "Whatever is that for, me' ole' mucker? Planning on opening a school to teach us all how it's done?" Brackenreid eyed the chalkboard suspiciously.

"I don't know sir, where did it come from?" Murdoch was quizzical but still enamored with it.

"Crabtree and one of the men found it in pieces at the back of an old store room and said you needed it, so I had them bring it out and set it up." Brackenreid stepped back. "And by the way, that water contraption is working out well. I guess we'll keep it….I noticed it makes the tea a spot better too." He frowned. "But, what's it going to cost me?"

"Er… yes sir. The dispenser setup is my doing, so costs us nothing. The water is forty cents a week, as much as we want, delivered. I got a discount for pre-paying, umm, paid from petty cash." Murdoch rushed on, nervous about the expense. "It is exactly what they have at the Chief Constable's office sir, but ours will be better since it will be chilled and it is cheaper, so…" Murdoch saw the inspector's wheels turning, knowing that appealing to his vanity was always a good gambit.

"So when we have visitors we can offer them this little luxury." _And none of my Scotch!_ "All right, Murdoch, you've sold it." Turning around to the evidence, he asked. "The men just got back from doing your bidding, so let's have a little chat about where we are at with the investigation.

"Yes sir…just let me set this up," indicating the blank chalkboard, and itching to start writing.

Brackenreid left him to it, predicting with some faint joy there will be chalk dust all over the man's priest-like suit in no time at all, and maybe that gutter-crown hat he so favoured.

# # #

After learning new information from witness statements and putting his own pieces of the puzzle in place, Murdoch was satisfied to set out the next stage of the investigation. He assembled the men in his workspace, happily in front of the chalkboard already divided into boxes, as a backdrop.

Clearing his throat quietly to get the officers' attention, he began: "Now that we know he was drinking in Marshall's pub, alone, in the hours before his death, and his first name might be Peter or Pierre. He left the pub at closing, one a.m., so he was alive between then and two-fifteen a.m. when he was found."

Murdoch called the tall thin officer over. "Constable Blake, you said another two witnesses heard an argument from the general direction of the alley about one-thirty or there-abouts?"

"Yes sir. No one slept well in the heat. Everyone's windows were open. Some people even sleeping on the roofs if you can imagine." There were a few chuckles at that.

Murdoch continued. "Thank you, constable. With this we can possibly narrow down the time of death with the geographic area of four blocks between the pub and where his body was found. Where did he go and what did he do during that time? We need a minute by minute accounting. It is also odd he has no identification on him either. He was unwisely at least talking about a large amount of cash, so we can speculate he was robbed for money because none was found on his person… but by whom? The person who killed him or a separate opportunist? " The constables nodded. "Find out if a new person is flush with cash today…."

"He was also complaining of 'woman troubles' at the pub...I believe you quoted the witness saying, and since husbands and wives, and er... _paramours,_ are the first suspects in a death, we need to find this woman he was complaining about, and possibly arguing with. It would not have taken that much effort to shove him out a large window to land in the middle of the street, so a woman could do it. No one has registered him as a missing person, and one would think if he was missed by this woman, she would have done so if things were well between them."

Murdoch turned to the board again to finish while the telephone rang in the inspector's office and Brackenreid went to answer it. "After examining his clothing again I think he was sheltered indoors, so now we are looking for rooming houses, boarding houses, even hotels I should think if he did have money. I think he is Catholic, based on evidence I found and we think Scandinavian in origins, or northern European at minimum, so here is the list of Churches he might have frequented… We will know more when the complete autopsy is done."

Murdoch distributed sketches of the dead man. "Try to figure out his identity. And consider any men who were seen with him or might have some other grudge, as suspects as well. However, our prime suspect now is any female who was seen in the company of this man, or a woman who was lodging with him, to question her: then either clear her or arrest her…. Check with the train stations and trolleys for a woman who might have been seen fleeing the area. We have a limited amount of time to catch his killer before the trail goes cold. Are there any questions?"

As there were none, Brackenreid who had returned, addressed the assembly. "Love or money, gentlemen, the oldest basic motives. This time it is love _and_ money. Now." He clapped his hands together in enthusiasm. "We have a new robbery—someone stealing beer from a distributor. Who wants that duty?" Every hand went up, so the inspector parceled out the investigation himself.

Murdoch started to approach Constable Crabtree to discuss the chalkboard when Brackenreid put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Good work, Murdoch. I think the lads will have a go at it for a while. That phone call was Inspector Knox at Station No. 5. They found a body and want you over there 'tout suite.' Some woman found with her face all smashed in…" 

"Just like the young woman last month…" Murdoch continued.

"Yes. Knox is expecting you. The coroner's already been called. You'd better get on, then." Brackenreid handed Murdoch a note with the location of the body and watched as the other man carefully selected items and place them in a rectangular portmanteau, something he called his "murder bag" for when he was sent to another precinct.

"I'll try to get the body sent back here if I can, Inspector. And I will check in with you tomorrow." With that, Murdoch took on his hat and bag.

Brackenreid looked after him pensively, wondering if there as a little spring in the man's step suggesting he welcomed the assignment, even though it disturbed another murder investigation. _Maybe I'll give Knox a ring and say his borrowed detective is on the way, and poke a little into his intentions..._

 _# # #_

 **11 am, Thursday June 30** **th**

William Murdoch was packing up in the cramped office provided by Inspector Knox at Station House No. 5. This station house was a put-up affair, side by side with the more substantial fire house, and shared the stables. At least it was electrified, which allowed him to work through the evening and night before taking a nap in the small ward-room, then rousing himself to begin again. Knox had been unhappy about releasing the victim's body to the central morgue, but the local coroner was as uneager as Dr. Johnson about keeping a body in such heat, so yesterday it was already sent on its way in a wagon, followed by the doctor in his own coupe.

William thought about the case: The victim, a young woman, approximately in her 20's, was found by some men who set up a tent camp at the bottom of a steep hill along the Don Valley. Such accommodations were not unusual considering the shortage (and expense) of housing the flood of immigrants to Toronto, particularly those who worked as farm labour. The woman was wrapped in canvas which served to prevent insect infestation, and the fact the body was in a ravine helped keep the remains cooler and from rotting as quickly as they may have. Her face was obliterated. Homicide was the only explanation and the weapon was yet to be determined, although it seemed whatever was used to kill her (probably not wooden) the same object was likely used to render her unrecognizable.

William wondered what would cause someone to do such a thing, and recognized absently his question was not the conventional one that a typical person would utter, full of confusion or horror. _No._ He was thinking motives: anger, revenge, pathological perversion, obfuscating a crime…

Unfortunately the body had been moved (by the person who discovered it as well as by the constables) before Murdoch arrived at the scene, but he was able to make a few observations and take some notes, while "six men good and true" were called to witness the evidence and pledged to attend the Inquest scheduled for Saturday. The constable assigned to him, Hamish Slorach, was efficient if not friendly. William suspected Slorach, an eight year veteran, was in line for promotion to Detective and did not want an interloper scouting the position, which William clearly was.

Constables were taking up the search for said weapon and witnesses along the river bank again today and expanded the parameters after some negotiation with the Inspector about 'over-time.'

He had already discussed his preliminary findings and line of inquiry with Inspector Knox at roll call, leaving instructions for additional tasks with Station 5 officers. He needed to return to Wilton Street to work on that investigation and could process the evidence from the woman's death better from there anyway, even if Knox objected. _Knox:_ who was sure yesterday that it was one of the homeless men who found her… and then who was sure this morning it was the same unknown killer that took the life of another young woman in May, since the victim's face was also beaten so badly identification had to be made by the accumulation of her personal effects, clothing and a birthmark.

 _I am not so sure about that_. William was stuffing his belongings away as fast as he could before he had to deal with Inspector Knox again. He was due at the morgue by noon and wanted to be on time, and while packing he was lost in thought as usual. The evidence showed as many dissimilarities as similarities to the other female beating victim; although two bodies did not define a pattern. _For that an unfortunate third victim was necessary,_ William reminded himself. _The men who found her were members of whole family groups who lived in a rather orderly new shanty town; and that much canvas would be too dear to waste._ William's working theory was crime of passion, versus efforts towards covering up a crime, indicating possible premeditation.

Then there was William's secondary purpose for his visit to these "hinterlands," as colourfully derided by Inspector Brackenreid.

William considered one path to his future as he rapidly approached his twenty-ninth birthday, two days away. Knox and Station House No. 5 were in some aspects a good fit: This inspector did not smoke or drink on duty, demanded rectitude from his men, and seldom raised his voice, let alone cursed. He was respectful enough, even calling him "Detective Murdoch" and suggesting that, after a certain trial period, it might become a permanent title. _As if two years and one other case with Station No. 5 was not apprenticeship enough already!_

The sticking point for William seemed to be that the man _hovered._ Knox needed to be in control over every little thing, while doing none of the actual work himself; and upon closer contact, it was obvious the man was not very, well, _bright._

 _That,_ and William suspected Knox was lining his pockets with money the city provided for the running of the precinct. Each Inspector had a budget to follow with salaries set by the city. If there was a surplus, some of it was expected to redound to the inspector for personal use, ostensibly to defray expenses or enhance petty cash. Those two factors may explain why the turn-over of men at Station House No. 5 was as rapid as it was. Knox might have determined that taking _him_ on as the new detective he could squeeze more work at a lower salary— _As Brackenreid is doing,_ he grumbled, and shoved his case shut with a slam.

Unfortunately as an "acting detective" he no longer received overtime: so even with an additional bump in pay from Brackenreid, he often made less money some weeks than other constables he commanded.

William took a few seconds before registering shame at the thought. _That was an unfair complaint: the extra in my pay packet is made up by the station and not the city, as "acting detective" is merely a glorified constable and paid as such, about twelve cents an hour for a ten hour day, six days a week. The reward was supposed to be experience that would eventually translate into a promotion carrying additional salary: a princely sixteen dollars a week!_ For a brief moment he imagined the new room at Mrs. Kitchen's a raise could allow him to trade up into…the one with a large bay window and the best light at the front of the house and more space for his desk and books. His reverie faltered: If he moved to Station House No. 5 he would need new lodgings and be much farther away from the university library…

He ruthlessly shut his ruminations down and nearly made his escape when Constable Slorach called out to him: "Oy! Murdoch. We found where we think the girl was killed."

Instead of directing his waiting horse and driver to Toronto's city-centre, William fetched his belongings into the cab, attentive to Slorach who was filling in details as they were carried to the top of the Don Valley ravine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **Early to late evening, Thursday June 30** **th**

Brackenreid was waiting impatiently for Murdoch to check in, whilst hoping to coax a breeze to flow between the window behind his desk and the open front door of the station house, in frustrated desire of relieving his shirt and paisley silk waistcoat from being plastered damply to his skin. He had rolled his sleeves up hours ago. It had even been too hot and sticky to drink scotch today, _well at least no more than a dram or two_ , so he had made good use of the new cool water dispenser, congratulating himself for going along with Murdoch's scheme. Two written autopsy reports were lying limply on his desk top. _It would have been better if Murdoch had been there to question the doctors like he usually does, but then again all he ends up doing is piss them off…._ Brackenreid smiled wryly, recognizing the sentiment.

The day shift was ending at 6 o'clock, but the inspector did not want to head for home until he saw Murdoch and went over the autopsies, as well as making sure everything was set for the Inquest at ten o'clock on Friday. He watched in contentment as the station emptied for the day, pleased with the way things were humming along, before turning his attention to the new man: _George Crabtree was turning out to be a wise choice, already fitting in well and willing to take on whatever is tossed his way_. He saw Crabtree was even now loitering at one of the partner desks, reading a book in the slanting yellow light, having volunteered to stay in case Murdoch needed something tended to. 

Brackenreid's musings this evening broadened to encompass his past two years as Inspector on Wilton Street, surveying his office in pleasure. Chief Constable Stockton personally promoted him from Detective to Inspector after the Ayotte case; an impressive rise through the ranks from constable in only eight years. However, with the promotion came a hitch or two: First, explicit orders for bringing the reputation of this particular station house to order, sorting out a few bad apples, and instilling discipline again after the embarrassing debacle between previous inspector and detective. His military background was considered a plus and likely sped him along in the ranks and into this particular office.

The other hitch: He was also stuck with Murdoch, who arrived as an acting detective only a month after Brackenreid's promotion, to "temporarily" replace the disgraced Detective Lamb, since the job had been empty for nearly three months. Murdoch who managed to frustrate or embarrass his previous detective one too many times by reinterpreting new evidence, or refuting the theory of the crime, or coming up with the facts that the detective had overlooked…. None of that was bad per se. In fact, his inspector was pleased at the rise in cleared cased and convictions, and several times advanced Murdoch to a temporary acting detective role in recognition of his contributions and talents.

But when the constables, (and sometimes even the inspector) started looking to Murdoch to learn about a case or for advice or direction, the Stations House's primary detective's ego was abraded and threatened to the point where the man was thought to be trying to sabotage Murdoch. The inspector did not want to lose his detective or see Murdoch ruined, so if there was going to be this much dissention, it was it clear Murdoch had to go. The idea was to get Murdoch to fit in a little better before he became a full-fledged detective, or send him back down as a constable, unsuited to a true leadership role. Brackenreid knew that he accomplished the first objectives and it was time to wind up the last. _Murdoch has a point—it has been two years, for Christ's Sake…_ That was at least part of why he wanted to see Murdoch tonight. He was about to give up when he noticed a slight movement of air, signaling the man he was waiting for had arrived.

"Murdoch! About bleeding time!" He levered himself up out of the chair, leaving a damp spot on the leather back.

"Yes, sir." William had hoped the station house would have been empty and hid his disappointment by taking a moment to remove his hat and set his case down. He was hot and hungry, but refused to let any of that show, other than by stopping by the water dispenser for several long draughts before presenting himself to his superior. He wondered in passing what Constable Crabtree was still doing there, but made his way to Brackenreid office.

"Sit down, Murdoch. Take your jacket off. You look like you are going to melt and you make me hotter just looking at you!" Brackenreid offered him a seat and came around the desk to sit on the edge informally.

His ginger hair, mustache and mutton chops were backlit from the window and William thought the glow was _indeed_ rather like the man being on fire, despite his icy blue eyes. Murdoch hesitated for a long moment, but eventually removed his suit coat and set it on the back of one chair. "Sir. Do you have the autopsies?" he inquired, hoping to move the discussion along quickly.

"I do," he said, tapping a finger on a sheaf of papers before handing them over. "Are you ready for the Inquest tomorrow?"

"Yes. I don't see why not," Murdoch said, flipping through the findings. "I notice nothing here to contradict our original assumption about his death. The working theory is still murder."

"The lads came up with an identification." Brackenreid held up a sheet. "Your methods once again narrowed down the search. One Peter York, age twenty-seven, occupation of some-time surveyor, who had paid through to the end of the month for his rooming house. Took on contract jobs for hire. No known enemies. Has a mother in Winnipeg; family name was Bjork – changed it when they came over, or when young Mr. York moved to Toronto, more likely. His landlord said he hadn't stayed there since the weekend, and suspected he was spending time with a new sweetheart who was coming to town to be with him. When the man was in his cups, he let on he might be coming into some money and would be moving away. In fact, no one saw him from mid-morning Thursday the 23rd until the night he was killed. Here is a list of what they found in his rooms. Not much, and no money other than a few dollars." The inspector passed the paper over. "So robbery and murder are a good fit, and the possible sweetheart a good suspect. So far nothing on her. I have the lads concentrating on that angle."

"Good. And the female victim?"

Brackenreid continued. "Your Jane Doe from the Don Valley. Killed probably by a rock hitting her skull. Dead since at least late Monday or early Tuesday according to Dr. Wallace."

"Was she…interfered with?" Murdoch let that euphemism stand.

"No. No, er... signs of force. Stomach contents indicates she ate a meal, possibly corn chowder of some sort right before she died. Dr. Wallace will have more for you tomorrow. Dr. Johnson will report officially on the rest of the analysis on York at his inquest tomorrow." Brackenreid chuckled with a sly look at Murdoch.

"What?... Sir?" William knew that inappropriately timed humour usually meant an inside joke was to be revealed, usually at his own expense.

"You should have seen the two of them square off on each other in the morgue, the good doctors Johnson and Wallace. It was rather comical. Dr. Johnson won. Dr. Wallace has to come back. _Only Murdoch could have them growling at each other…_ He looked at Murdoch's face and knew the other man read between the lines.

"Er…yes. Will that be all sir?" William was looking forward to peacefully sorting the evidence before going home. _It seems to me that this time Wallace and Johnson might have been pushed to a little competition in discovering probative evidence,_ William noted with some gratification. 

"Not quite. How did things go with Inspector Knox? I assume you will be having to travel between us until both cases are closed. Did Knox offer you the post at Station five?"

"Yes, I will need to travel back and forth, and no, nothing was offered. But I can list certain plusses if an offer was made."

Brackenreid's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really, now. And what would they be?"

William stood and gathered his jacket. "Perhaps another time?" and turned and left, with a small blossom of satisfaction in his chest, and quirk to his lips, knowing the inspector's mouth was clearly agape in consternation.

Before he could be dragged back to Brackenreid's office on another pretext, William approached Constable Crabtree who appeared to be so engrossed in a book as to be oblivious of his surroundings.

"Good evening, Constable Crabtree. May I ask what you are reading?" he said, trying to see the title.

Crabtree put the book down and smiled warmly. "Good evening to you, sir. It's a book, sir. I love to read, you see. Anything and everything, ever since I was a child in fact. This here is a novel by a Mrs. Anna Katherine Green. I read her first book when I was but a lad of eleven or twelve. It was called 'The Leavenworth Case.' My aunties always had books around. Mrs. Green lives in Buffalo and has written wonderful stories about murders and detectives. Sparked my imagination I suppose…."

William's expectations were dashed (again) by the constable's choice of reading material, and he realized right away Crabtree was going to trap him in a lengthy and tangential conversation. He interrupted to forestall further discourse. "I wanted to thank you for the chalkboard. It is marvelous, really. Where ever did you get the idea? And where did you find the board? I never knew we had one…"

"You are very welcome. I just saw it sitting there all taken apart when I was nosing around and thought you definitely needed it. I got the idea from... well…" Crabtree looked straight on at the punctilious gentleman in front of him and did a quick edit. "When I was growing up there were always such complicated…er, um… _schedules_ to arrange, yes that's it. So they used a chalkboard scavenged from an old school house—nothing as spiffy as this one, but it seemed to work back home, so I thought…" He shrugged and smiled.

"Yes. Well it serves the purpose quite nicely. Thank you again. Good to have you with us, Constable Crabtree. I bid you good night." William moved off towards his work area.

"Sir! Inspector Brackenreid assigned me to help you out until you were through for the night. Said I should not go home until you do." He saw Murdoch stop and pause. "Many hands make light work, isn't that right sir? Perhaps there is something helpful I can do?"

William calculated how best to handle this, so against his better judgement he said, "Have you had any supper yet?" Crabtree shook his head. Fishing in his pockets, William drew out several coins and placed them on the desk. "If you would be so kind as to get us two sandwiches and come back? Then we can begin." He thought he'd get at least twenty minutes of blissful solitude before the meal appeared.

# # #

 _It has been most fruitful, if challenging, to have Constable Crabtree work through the evidence,_ thought William. _Crabtree takes direction exceedingly well and possesses a quick mind when it can be kept focused._ Previous experience at Station House No. 1, it appeared, gave Crabtree a good start on understanding procedures. William chuckled a little to himself, thankful he had teachers who tolerated _his_ endless questioning so he had a role model for managing the new constable.

Together the two of them sorted each case, labeled the evidence obtained so far and used opposite sides of the new chalkboard to organize and record the individual cases in a logical grid format. William checked his watch. It was barely eight o'clock. The constable's irritating flights of fancy did not impede progress very much, for which William was grateful, and he felt confident he was prepared for the Inquest in the morning. The sandwich revived him adequately to keep working (he declined the beer Crabtree brought, much to the desk sergeant's happiness to receive it) so William was contemplating a trip to the morgue to tie up a few questions.

Crabtree was looking at the chalkboard, and then down on his uniform, now heavily dusted with white, unlike Murdoch, whose trousers were seemingly pristine. "It occurs to me that we tend to pick up whatever we are next to, or most of us do…."

"Yes. It is something to be on the lookout for when you are gathering evidence." Murdoch took a breath to explain when he was interrupted by Crabtree.

"Sir. Look at this, for instance." Crabtree bobbed back and forth from one side of the chalk board to the other. "These two unrelated cases have some similar components. There is manure on shoes, which I suppose is unavoidable in Toronto; straw—which is everywhere of course; American coins which even I have in my pockets; they both even ate corn. I never eat the stuff myself, it's for cows and pigs and such, not fit for people He has blonde hair on his head and she had some light coloured hair on her person…"

William's eyes narrowed as he listened to Crabtree burbling on, thinking that there were other tests he might want to perform on the evidence. All those details may be incidental and so common- place as to be meaningless, but… "Go on, constable." While Crabtree talked, Murdoch visualized the chalkboard's front and back as if they were side by side, easily seeing the similarities and differences.

"Then there are all the things that are completely dissimilar, quite a long list I suppose…." He heard Murdoch made a small noise to interrupt that train of thought, so went back to his central idea. "Well, we _are_ going with the notion that the missing sweetheart is our prime suspect. What are the chances this woman did the deed and is now in the morgue as a matter of some larger act of justice? I mean that happens all the time in novels…"

William could not prevent a sigh from escaping. "Not very often in real life. What is required is evidence that cannot be artifacts of chance. As you said, all those components are very common; could be found to occur between any two random people, even you and I." A thought was niggling uncomfortably in the back of his mind, dragging his attention away from the conversation. "You should feel free to go home for the day, Constable. I am sure you are tired and, well perhaps your family…?" William left it vague so as not to pry.

"Oh, no sir. I live in a rooming house, on the third floor so it will be hot as…well very hot. I trip to the morgue sounds like it will be much cooler. And you sir, your family?..."

"No. My family is not in Toronto." William stood abruptly and reached for his notes, hoping Crabtree would not press. He seldom, actively thought about the past as there was nothing any one could ever do to rectify it. It is why he focused so intently on the present, on the problems at hand.

Murdoch said this so curtly, Crabtree wondered if he'd made an error in asking. "Er, sorry sir. Shall we?"

The morgue was indeed quite pleasant, if you could ignore the smells, and both men lingered perhaps longer than was necessary while pulling two corpses out of the cooler in to the autopsy bay. Before moving on to the bodies, William first examined the woman's clothing that was set aside for him on a wooden table. He noticed the manure on her boots, and he took a sample to see if he could figure out what kind. Manure of all kinds was more than a nuisance for footwear and noses. It was a civic hazard, a vector for disease, contaminator of water, and ubiquitous in Toronto as Crabtree observed. There were samples from her clothing and under her torn fingernails, hair, straw and leaves, soil consistent with the scene where she was killed, and blood on her apron along with what appeared to be food soils, a few copper pennies. All was as noted in the written report from Dr. Wallace. Murdoch has specifically asked for them to be set aside for him to look at as well.

"What's this?" Crabtree pointed at a silver clasped pin.

"That, is a patented diaper pin, although they are used for more than babies, it may indicate she had children or was around them—seems she used it on the inside of her skirt to hold up a hem…" William trailed off and pulled out his magnifying glass while examining.

"What are we looking for here, sir?"

Murdoch's head snapped up quickly. "Constable…would you please bring all the evidence from my workspace, the written reports, _everything,_ right away."

Crabtree hurried back with both arms full of material, with the nighttime desk sergeant bringing up the rear. The constable was fascinated to watch Murdoch commandeer the morgue equipment as if he knew what he was doing. Microscopes were lined up, samples taken, the bodies reviewed and compared to the written autopsy reports, and it looked like for all the world the man was, well…was having fun!

Murdoch carefully examined a piece of hair. "Constable, what do you think of this? Look at the colour."

Crabtree came over. "Very blonde, almost colourless I'd say. Sir, that's almost like Peter York…"

William took the sheets down from the head of York, and brought the hair sample to compare with the male victim. "It is very like his hair." William became more animated, obtaining a small sample to take back to the magnifier.

"And this soil. See the similarities from where she was killed and the soil on his boots and in his cuffs. I have to determine if the physical make-up of the soil is unique enough…"

By the time they were through with the comparisons, it was approaching ten o'clock. Murdoch looked up from a last peek under magnification. "So, we are in agreement then?"

Crabtree began. "It seems that we now believe the crimes involving these two people could be related after all. Jane Doe might be Mr. York's sweetheart, but really was just a gold digger who was out for his money. In addition to grime, you found a shoe impression on his clothing that could have possibly come from her boot, you found his hair on her, and similar soils on both of them. If she killed him by shoving him out a window, then who killed her? Someone she was in cahoots with?"

"No, constable. Look at the autopsy report. The contents of her stomach and of his intestines indicate they ate a similar meal, right before she died, but she died first—no time to digest the food. She was killed before he was, even though her body was found afterwards. The cuts on his hands could be from his use of a rock to kill her and then the heavy work of making her unrecognizable. Wrapping the body may have been a sign of remorse instead of merely hiding his crime. There is no evidence so far of any actual money, so perhaps that is not an element of this story at all. Mr. York died the next day. That opens back up the possibility he killed her, a crime of brutal passion, possibly while intoxicated, and then out of guilt got himself enough liquid courage in the form of rye whisky to kill himself as well..." Murdoch's face darkened as he ran this off, feeling enraged but not wishing to share any part of his feelings about such a possibility.

It took a while for him to calm himself down, and he started talking to himself. "The chalkboard separated the cases, just the way the autopsies did, being farmed out as they are to different coroners." As he talked, he picked up a small stack of papers. "What is this, constable?" he asked.

"Sorry, sir. You said bring everything, and I guess I scooped that up by mistake. That is the description of a woman that's wanted for questioning the Buffalo case. They are looking for an ex-nanny of a missing child…" Both of them looked at each other simultaneously, and went over to the female victim.

"Constable, please hold this." Murdoch retrieved his tape measure, and they carefully marked sixty-four inches.

"She is the same approximate age and height, same dark chestnut hair colour. Of course there is no eye colour we can check…" Crabtree said even this awful fact excitedly and grinned broadly before stifling himself, believing that levity was inappropriate, or at certainly showing it was uncalled-for under these gruesome circumstances. But, indeed, the last quarter-hour was thrilling, making him forget the sights and stench of death. "Do you suppose that means she was involved? Perhaps the idea we just settled on is incorrect?"

"We must not jump to conclusions. We have some evidence connecting these two people, the most compelling of which is similar digestive-system contents, a time-line of when the deaths occurred, and a theory…or new theory I should say. That is all. We have no witnesses who have seen this man and woman together. We still need to piece together Mr. York's last day, last two days if we think he had contact with our female victim. We have no idea who she is. Moreover, we have no proof this woman is Mary Maud Burdick, and we would need to be certain. And if she _is_ then our theory about how she may be connected to Mr. York is in question. No photograph will help us, assuming she ever had one taken. And there are no particularly distinguishing marks on her body other than the usual wear and tear of life, no broken bones, no birth marks, no markers for disease…"

"And if she did not kill Mr. York and he did not suicide, making sure we do not jump to conclusions, then who did him in?" Crabtree asked.

"Exactly." Murdoch examined the poster again in more detail, and went back over to one of the microscopes with a focused look on his face.

He was so still, and stared at the device so long, that Crabtree became worried. "What is it sir?"

"Constable, look at the description of the missing child at the bottom of the page—a young boy, very light blonde hair, which is not much to go on. The probability is very low, of course, but just to be certain, I want you to contact Buffalo Police Headquarters. I am trusting they might be able to respond by the morning." Murdoch looked up, and confessed to some doubts. "We still may have this all wrong, but it never hurts to follow all leads to get to the truth."

Murdoch removed a piece of paper from his notebook and made a series of notations. He went back again into his pockets, then his billfold looking for money, and handed both to Crabtree. "Constable, please take this to the telegraph office and see that it is sent before you head home for the night, would you? And… this is between you and me, for now…"

"Right away, sir." Crabtree went off like an arrow while William surveyed the mess he needed to remove, so no traces of their nocturnal explorations remained. It would not do to have the inspector's wrath in the morning—any more than he was going to have when he shared the new update on the cases. He was tired, sore and exhilarated, and looking forward to a quick cycle home, with the air moving past him as fast as he could make his legs go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Morning Friday July 1** **st**

Murdoch arrived to work precisely at seven forty five, preoccupied with details of his cases and rehearsing what to tell his superior about new developments while he rode from his lodgings on Ontario to work on Wilton Street. He grunted silently as he placed his cycle against the inner door of the precinct stables and tipped his hat to the stable boy. _Make that superiors, plural._ _Knox will not like Station No. 4 taking over jurisdiction and Brackenreid will not like the idea of opening up additional an investigation beyond the idea of murder-suicide._

He hoped his second, discrete inquiry into a potential connection to that Buffalo case would be asked and answered quickly and quietly, so that he could proceed without ruffling any feathers. He greeted Constable Hodge with a genuine smile, while reaching for messages.

"William!" Hodge hissed. "What did you _do_?" Constable Hodge's distress was plain on his face. He took an avuncular interest in the wellbeing of William Murdoch ever since the younger man arrived, and this morning was worried because the Inspector's mood was a thick and dark as the tea he liked to drink.

Murdoch registered his own confusion and spun about quickly, feeling a small trickle of sweat down his back that had nothing to do with ambient temperature, considering the heat had broken overnight. "Constable Hodge, what is going on…?"

His question was interrupted by the Inspector himself, with a rather too-pleasantly composed voice and manner, calling to him. "Ah, yes, Detective Murdoch, might I please have a word?" with an extra emphasis on the _'detective.'_ Brackenreid even waited politely by his office entrance to usher him inside, then secured the door and pulled the shades before rounding on him.

"What the devil is going on?" Brackenreid thundered in an unsuccessful attempt at _sotto voce._

William was familiar with the choleric temper of Thomas Brackenreid. Since he had no idea, _precisely,_ what his superior was upset about (and considering the vast number of potential reasons) he stood at attention in the middle of the floor and merely asked, "Can you be more specific?" He struggled to keep all expression off his own face, while noting a dangerous flush on Brackenreid's.

"I have a 'Yankee' police detective, of all things, from Buffalo, of all places, cooling his heels at _your_ desk." He gestured expansively, sending his watch chain violently swaying. "I got a call _at my home!_ First thing this morning, from the night sergeant explaining a man was on our doorstep here and wanted to be seen, pronto. Imagine my surprise?! Says he was contacted late last night by urgent telegraph from _this_ station house and came up straight away on the night-train to help with our murder investigation. _Our_ murder investigation! First of all, who gave you the authority to call in an outsider, let alone a bloody American?!" Brackenreid's attempt at _politesse_ was failing.

Murdoch was torn. Shock at the inspector's tirade was superseded by immense curiosity about why, instead of a simple hair sample coming by return post, an officer from Buffalo took such an abrupt journey, and it took all William's effort not to rush right over to find out. He spent some time in his head weighing options, which only served to increase Brackenreid's ire.

Offended at Murdoch's non-response the inspector shouted. "Murdoch! Am I boring you?"

William refocused. "Sir…I can explain…"

"Can you now? Well you have a limited amount of time considering the Inquest is in two hours and Dr. Wallace expects you across the way at the morgue. So, bring me up to speed, now, and then go take care of _our_ guest." Brackenreid made his way behind his desk and sat down with his arms crossed. As he calmed down he was starting to be interested in what Murdoch was going to say. _The man was an acquired taste, but usually produced results._ He set a forbidding look on his face for good measure and thought: _This better be worth the fuss!_

In a relatively short period of time, Inspector Brackenreid released Murdoch into the bull-pen with a glower and orders to sort it out immediately.

Murdoch collected his "guest" and after preliminary introductions, took him directly over to the morgue where Dr. Wallace was waiting. As they walked, they talked. "Detective Callahan, I still am not quite sure why you came all this way in person. Unless you met Miss Burdick, or could identify her in some way, your presence is unnecessary." Murdoch was disconcerted by the casual language of the American detective and by the largest set of mutton chops he had seen on a gentleman in recent memory, garnishing Patrick Callahan's face. Murdoch judged him to be at least forty, dressed in a light summer suit with grey bowler hat, round and getting soft, clearly too long behind a desk, but his mind appeared to be keen.

"I'm more interested in why you asked for the hair sample. It occurred to me you might have a lead on the whereabouts of young Master Emerson, whom I have pledged to return to his family. I was quite disappointed to learn you did not, after I got here." Callahan frowned.

"I was just being… _thorough_ , I suppose. I am sorry if I implied anything else in the telegram. We will be able to compare the hair sample you brought and you can render an opinion about the woman's identity if you think you can. Then you can go back to Buffalo, with our thanks, of course." He fervently hoped that was going to be true as he opened the door to the morgue and led Callahan down the ramp. William arrived at Dr. Wallace's autopsy table and turned to make introductions before noticing Callahan appeared rooted to the floor by the metal railing. "Detective Callahan? This way…"

"Oh, umm. I did not realize... You have the, remains, of this, um, person…?" Callahan's voice sounded tight. "And you are going to reveal this, um…now?"

"Yes." He rotated between gurney and rail. "Good morning. Dr. Wallace, may I present Detective Patrick Callahan from the Buffalo, New York, police department? Detective Callahan, this is Dr. Harold Wallace, the coroner working the case. Detective Callahan has come with some information, or possible evidence, that has an outside chance of helping identify our Jane Doe." Murdoch resumed his usual position for listening to the coroner's findings. "What results have you for us, doctor?"

"Murdoch, Callahan," Dr. Wallace acknowledged, and began a thorough review of the body. The whole time, Detective Callahan stared directly ahead, eyes pinned on a large white cabinet containing jars of neatly labeled chemicals. When his exhortation was complete, Dr. Wallace exited, leaving Murdoch and Callahan alone with the corpse for their own investigation.

Murdoch was acutely aware of Callahan's agitation, and wondered if the man ever attended a full autopsy before, if he was _this_ disturbed by a mere review of the victim's body and wounds.

He invited the American detective to join him on the floor of the autopsy bay, which the other man did with obvious distaste, making Murdoch think that having him here was a mistake, if not an actual hindrance. He tried to rouse him by offering him an out. "Detective Callahan, the quicker you can give me the hair sample, the sooner I will be able to conduct the comparison."

Callahan licked his lips, but his eyes were still stuck on the glass cabinet doors and the contents protected behind them. Stiffly, he extracted an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it wordlessly to Murdoch. Murdoch accepted it, also without comment, and traveled to the duet of microscopes waiting for him on a workbench. He placed the Buffalo hair sample on one slide after marking it, and hair from the female victim's clothing on the other, and moved the focal length until he could see clearly. _No match._

Murdoch sat back on the stool, unsure of his reaction to the evidence and gave his opinion. "The sample does not match, Detective Callahan. I am sorry."

He expected Callahan to bolt, but instead the other man steeled himself to walk closer. "Detective Murdoch. You only compared one hair sample. Perhaps there are others?"

Murdoch just nodded and switched through each strand of hair one by one, until a certain similarity swam into view. "Yes! Detective Callahan, this sample is consistent with the child's hair you brought. Please see for yourself, as confirmation."

The other man nodded rigidly, making a wide berth around the gurney and looked into the eye piece. "I see what you mean. Are you satisfied this is a link to the missing boy?"

Murdoch considered. "No. Not in and of itself. We cannot prove it is from the exact same head, but it _is_ suggestive. Has any of the doctor's recitation reminded you of clues to know if this is indeed Mary Maude Burdick? Anything definitive on her body? Unique identifying features? That would be more compelling…"

The American paled. "We have some information that Miss Burdick had, er…um… marks on her lower limbs." He looked more distressed than ever.

Murdoch went to the corpse and started lifting the bottom of the sheet, causing the Buffalo detective to groan and turn his back. Murdoch was confused, and spoke sharply. "Detective Callahan, I must insist you tell me what is going on. Is this your first autopsy? Answer me man! Are you here to help in the investigation or not?"

"I have standards Detective Murdoch." Callahan clenched his fists against his sides. "No man should view the limbs of a woman, not even his wife!—It is just not _done!_ I am surprised you do so; and the language you tolerate from your Inspector!" He nearly spit this last part out and tugged angrily at his ill-fitting brown jacket.

 _So at least he is not queasy about death,_ Murdoch was actually relieved, as that would be a rather insurmountable impediment to being a successful police detective, especially in a city with as much violence as Buffalo's canal district. Time was running out. Detective Callahan was apparently serious about his sense of decency, but Murdoch detected a strong inner conflict that needed to be exploited as soon as possible. "Detective, tell me right now what I am looking for on the body. _Right now!_ "

Callahan took in a ragged breath. "She has a mark on her right…on the right surface of her right lower limb, um, where it bends. It is crescent in shape…"

"Got it!" William exhaled abruptly and checked his time piece. "Detective Callahan, we have to go. _Now_." He said that as he pushed the gurney into the cooler and slammed the latch. He was halfway out the door when he stopped cold, with another thought.

# # #

"The connections you present are rather thin, _Detectives._ What other evidence do you have?" Murdoch and the American detective were occupying two seats in front his desk, with Brackenreid shifting his stare from one silent man to the other. " _Bloody Hell!_ Go on, gentlemen, we are short on time."

Detective Callahan started. "Yeah. We sure was hell are. You should know that there is more to this case than what was on the poster; perhaps that is why I was so…motivated to beat a path here today." He straightened in the chair. "Young Master Windsor Emerson has been missing since last Thursday afternoon when he disappeared from the back yard of their home on Richmond Avenue. Little Windsor, who is but four and a half, and who was playing alone in a fenced yard, was removed with no witnesses. A very well- planned abduction, except for one thing: Mrs. Leah Emerson was found beaten to death in the house by her husband. He says he found her when he came home earlier than expected from his office. The mother was obviously killed by the same people who took the kid and hadn't been dead very long according to the Buffalo coroner. We set up a dragnet looking for the boy and the killer, but no luck. And then there was the ransom note mailed to Mr. Fargo, Mrs. Emerson's father, in the Friday morning post, some 'mutt' asking for ten thousand dollars and specifying no cops involved or the kid would die as well. You can imagine how seriously the family took that threat. " He sighed. "It was paid lickety-split by the end of the day last Friday."

Brackenreid was surprised. "Paid?"

"Yes. When young Windsor wasn't returned at the appointed time, the family was devastated and went to the police about the attempted ransom scheme. Mr. Fargo and Mr. Emerson both received other communications demanding more ransom to get the child back, but Mr. Fargo refused to go along with any of them." Callahan's face showed what he thought of that.

"The family refused to pay?" asked Murdoch, whose own face echoed shock. _What sort of man is Mr. Fargo?_

Callahan knew he had perhaps been too harsh in his presentation, and added: "I believe Mr. Fargo has a _businessman's_ understanding of things, detective. He couldn't trust anyone to bargain in good faith and it was likely that most of the demands for money were hoaxes. How was he to be sure? Instead, he announced a reward for the safe return of his grandson."

"How then do you think Miss Burdick, if this is she, is involved? Other…" Asked the inspector.

"Other than the money?" Murdoch said at the same time as the inspector blurted it out, briefly locking eyes with each other.

Callahan continued. "At first, we didn't think Miss Burdick was involved because of the brutality of the crime, her being a female after all and of the weaker gender, and because she was very attached to the children and to Mrs. Emerson. Miss Burdick was a nanny to the children until April the previous year, when she left for another position. All on the up and up." Callahan sat forward, explaining. "Miss Burdick only moved on, with excellent references, when the children transitioned to needing a governess. She was not a suspect per se, really just being sought for information as the rest of present and past household staff were, casting about for anything relevant, not even high on the list for interviews. At least not until it was discovered she left her new employer abruptly."

"I take it that was suspicious," Murdoch added.

"Very." Callahan nodded. "Mr. Emerson said Miss Burdick had family in Rochester and Toronto, so I made a plug for the broad requests for information."

"And you have other ideas now," stated Brackenreid.

"Yeah. If we could tie her to the abduction, we thought that she was used to easily lure the child, maybe fell for some boyfriend who double crossed her, and would be, umm...discarded quickly." Callahan paused. "I thought we would find her... remains…in Buffalo. When I got your telegram Detective Murdoch, I was hopeful that if this was Miss Burdick, while she was alive she may have protected the kid, regardless of her association with the crime. I know her manner of death is similar to Mrs. Emerson—bludgeoned, although not deliberately disfigured, thye ,kammer of death was similar." Detective Callahan gazed steadily at the Inspector, willing the constabulary man to understand his determination.

Murdoch spoke up. "Sir, we can tie both victims to each other now by showing that hair consistent with the youngster's was found both on the female victim and on Peter York; both had similar soils on their clothing, and both ate a meal with similar contents at roughly the same time. I do not believe the other commonalities are unique enough to be considered evidence and there is a great deal of evidence that is inconsistent. But, what is more compelling is we can also tie Mr. York to the female's death since marks on Mr. York's hand are consistent with using a rock as a weapon, I surmise. The female victim is similar in description to Miss Burdick in height, hair colour, and so on, and also has a unique scar on her right…" He saw Callahan redden, but carried on, "…knee, leading us to believe Jane Doe is in fact Mary Maud Burdick."

Inspector Brackenreid stood abruptly, knowing he would be wishing desperately for a drink by the end of this. "So, Murdoch, er… _Detective_ Murdoch, what is your theory of the crime _now_? First you thought they were unrelated cases: He was robbed and killed, and she was killed by a boyfriend or some other deranged unknown killer." Murdoch tried to interrupt but the inspector shut him down. "Then because of this blonde hair evidence, you thought _she_ killed _him_ in a lover's quarrel, or for his money, but then you discovered she was dead before him, so you followed that by thinking _he_ killed _her_ and then killed himself out of guilt!"

"Well, yes sir, but…" Murdoch tried to recapture the lead in the argument but the Inspector was on a roll.

"Now you think they are involved in this kidnapping, but unfortunately they are both dead. We have no witnesses who ever saw the two of them together. Something doesn't add up, and Murdoch, you have an inquest appearance in less than twenty minutes, barely enough time to get over to the courthouse. Blake is already over there." Brackenreid snapped his watch case closed. "Even she did not kill him and if he killed her, assuming of course he did not suicide, then who in blue blazes killed Peter York?"

"May I suggest something?" Detective Callahan had watched the exchange between the constabulary men in alarm. "We need to follow the money, as you suggested Inspector. Whomever has the money may have killed Mr. York, but more importantly, may also have the young Windsor."

"That is the problem. We have no evidence of any actual money, just one man's loose lips. This is all speculation." Inspector Brackenreid looked meaningfully at Murdoch for a moment in silent communication and then dropped his gaze. "I don't think there is much hope. I am very sorry, but we have no leads."

The American sat for a long while, the struggle moving across his face before he cleared his throat. "I have to agree with you, gentlemen." He slumped a bit in the chair.

"Well," Brackenreid moved over to his office door. "Detective Murdoch, you have an inquest to attend to. Detective Callahan, I will get one of my constables to show you where to freshen up and grab a bite of breakfast. I promise we will follow up any leads that develop, and we will get notification out to the other precincts straight away." He said quietly aside to Murdoch: "I will call Inspector Knox and give him the news."

The inspector exited his door and grabbed the first man within his reach. "Crabtree, come see to our guest, a fellow officer from New York. Get him some of our fresh bottled water," and handed Detective Callahan off, before returning to Murdoch.

"Figure out what you are going to say in court, and then come right back here. The murder investigations will proceed on their own for a while. We don't want to get anyone's hopes up, but if anyone can find this lad, you will, eh?" Brackenreid squeezed the other man's arm for emphasis, recalling to both of them another lost boy who was recovered, to the endless gratitude of the inspector's wife.

"We will need a great deal of luck, sir…" Murdoch hedged.

"Murdoch. Wasn't one of those saying you tell the lads something like luck goes with those who are prepared?" The inspector saw the other man's surprise, and gave a small smile. "What? Do you think I don't pay attention?"

William offered a wry grin. "It was Louis Pasteur, sir. He said 'luck favours the prepared mind'."

"Well, I've never met a mind better prepared than yours. Now, go get him back." Brackenreid said this with confidence.

"Yes, sir." Murdoch promised, feeling skeptical about the outcome, but acknowledged the trust that was being placed in him. He had started thinking of another story that fit the facts, which meant that young Windsor Emerson had been on his own for the last four days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **Late morning - afternoon Friday July 1** **st**

Murdoch entered the station house deep in contemplation. The Coroner's Inquest returned satisfactory findings which concurred with his own: the murder of Peter York, born Piers Bjork, on or about 1:30 in the morning on June 29th, by being pushed out of a window with force, breaking his skull on the pavement below. The perpetrator was unknown. He absently collected messages from Constable Hodge and walked into Brackenreid's office for a word, before realizing it was empty. The inspector was not in. More aware now, he made the observation that aside from Hodge, and Blake who had returned with him, the place was empty. Even Detective Callahan had left. He went back to the desk. "Constable Hodge, where is every one? Certainly not at lunch?"

"No. There was a disturbance down at the docks, so they got the armory open and went there in force. Still have two men working the cells downstairs, trying to get a few of them released so there will be room for the crowd likely to be brought in. How did the inquest go? Your way I assume, William?" Hodge winked and smiled.

"Er, yes, I suppose." Murdoch knew John Hodge took pride in his work and the precinct's successes and seemed to carry genuine affection for him. Only Hodge ever used his Christian name, and only in private. "Do you expect them back soon?"

"No, I don't. They haven't been gone that long. The inspector left it up to me to call in more men if there was trouble we could not handle, but as you can see it is quiet," he said, gesturing to the open area, devoid of people.

 _A blessedly quiet space_ , thought William. "Thank you, Constable," he offered with a smile and took himself to his desk. Once there he extracted his notes and separated the pages while staring at the chalkboard, which he rotated on its horizontal axis, rather hypnotically.

Or at least it seemed that way to Constable Crabtree from his position at one of the center desks, who was observing Murdoch flip and flip the chalk-covered rectangle. Crabtree had been tasked with seeing to the American Detective's needs and then asked to make an additional inquiry or two about the victim, Peter York, for the inspector. He came back with no one to report to as Inspector and Detective Callahan were not in evidence. Constable Hodge suggested giving the information directly to Murdoch, but Crabtree had once again become fascinated watching the other man at work, transfixed by the sight. It was only when Constable Hodge gave up trying to discretely signal and came over to put his hand on a shoulder and whisper _"George!"_ that Crabtree mobilized to knock on Murdoch's door.

"Sir?" Crabtree interrupted.

The disturbance penetrated William's concentration, pulling his head up to seek the source. "Yes? Yes, Constable?"

Crabtree took is eyes away from the chalk board. He was motioned forward and began speaking. "Sir. Detective Callahan filled me in with the facts of the case, and the kidnapping of young Emerson. So, instead of suicide, you think Mr. York was murdered and someone took the ransom money from him. But no money has turned up. Not even a whiff. That is unusual is it not?"

"Yes, I suppose it is." Murdoch's expression was blunted.

"Well, doesn't that suggest there was another person involved in the scheme? I mean, who else would know for sure that this York fellow had the money, and even more so, where to find it? What if that person killed York, or for that matter killed both York and Miss Burdick? Unless you think Mr. York killed Mrs. Emerson and Miss Burdick, same methods after all…"

Now Murdoch scrubbed his forehead. "That is an interesting idea, constable." 

"Detective Callahan seemed most concerned about finding the Emerson child. He seemed discouraged, especially thinking that killing Miss Burdick likely indicated the boy was dead as well…" Crabtree trailed off, considering the horror of that.

"We have no leads on the boy, constable. By now there is an alert to all the precincts, and I suspect Detective Callahan might have put something in the papers hoping a citizen will provide information." Murdoch had spent the last several hours dividing his mental energy between whatever was in front of him and the problem of locating the boy, _alive_ if possible.

"The Inspector sent me off to get some information. May I?" Crabtree took out his notebook. "I did some research regarding Mr. York, about his employment history and I think you will be interested. It seems Mr. York worked as a surveyor for a company with offices in Buffalo, Toronto and Kingston. Three years ago he did a spot of survey work east of the city. Specifically north and east of Riverdale Park. He was supposed to look at elevations and who owned drainage hectares or some such into the Don River. It's still a rather rural area, some small farm holds. In the process he also looked at the escarpment, specifically the area right where your Jane Doe was found. Or am I to understand we have confirmed her identity as that nanny from Buffalo, Miss Burdick?"

"Yes. I believe she is. We have linked them, and the working theory is that Mr. York killed Miss Burdick and then was himself killed by a person or persons unknown, perhaps because he boasted about the money. Your information about Mr. York having knowledge of the area adds to the evidence. He might have known where to discard a body, not realizing that by rolling her down the escarpment he was actually landing her near a shanty town that only popped up this spring." Murdoch's blank lethargy evaporated abruptly and he jerked back to his papers, as Crabtree went on talking.

"I mean, what if Miss Burdick _was_ taken for a dupe? Knew nothing about the death of Mrs. Emerson. That was Detective Callahan's first guess. But ending up in Toronto as she did, perhaps she was Mr. York's sweetheart after all. We know she had contact, or we guess, she had contact with the boy. What if Mr. York did _not_ in fact kill her? What if that third party did both the deeds?" Crabtree had a bright enthusiasm about stringing out the 'what if' scenarios.

Murdoch paid no attention as he paged through his evidence and erased and wrote furiously on the board. He came around abruptly. "Constable Crabtree, get Constable's Blake and Hodge over here, will you please?"

Murdoch was about to start his explanation when Detective Callahan reappeared and approached them quietly. "I am about to go back and thought I'd take my leave of you. Thank you for…"

"No!" Murdoch's stomach sank. He could not believe he was saying this, and yet could well believe the trouble it will cause for doing so, already visualizing tactics he was going to need to defuse the inspector. He smoothed his expression and brought himself up, ramrod straight, and smiled. "Detective, please stay." He waved a hand, politely inviting him into the workspace and forming room in front of the chalk board for the Buffalo detective. He began:

"Gentlemen. We've been looking in the wrong place. Mr. York had not been seen near his lodgings for several days before his death. Where was he? We have been canvassing the area around his known haunts near the city centre trying for witnesses who saw him. Or him with a woman, whom we had initially suspected was his killer. There is nothing suggesting Miss Burdick was seen in town with or without him. Constable Crabtree discovered Mr. York did some surveying work several years ago along the Don River. We think the evidence points to the likelihood Mr. York and Miss Burdick could have been seen together near the location of _her_ death, not his, as we assume he killed her there." Murdoch saw he had each man's attention. "If we believe that Miss Burdick, at minimum, was involved in the kidnapping of the Emerson boy, then it stands to reason that finding where _she_ was might lead us to clues to the boy. The murder investigations are secondary right now." He paused. "If the boy is alive, he is running out of time."

# # #

Murdoch hung up the telephone after a haphazard conversation with Inspector Knox, announcing four men from Station House No. 4 were coming up by carriage, and requesting several maps of the outlying areas, with additional men to be available to search for the Emerson boy. This was extracted only after a promise that there would be no extra funds needing to be spent. Murdoch failed to mention that one of the four was going to be an American policeman.

"Constable Hodge, please inform Inspector Brackenreid when he returns of the new developments and search for the boy. And that Constables Blake andCrabtree are coming with me. We will require all the extra manpower." He nodded to the others, picked up three hard bound books, some of his files and evidence samples, placed them in his portmanteau, and went rushing with his companions to the stables for a bumpy carriage ride out of the city.

Inspector Knox was less than pleased when officers from another precinct, one of whom was not even _Canadian,_ quietly but decidedly, commandeered his station house. It helped a little when he heard a more coherent story and saw the desperation in Detective Callahan's urgency to find the boy. By two p.m. Station five's men were split up by Murdoch into three teams and assigned to coordinate with either Constable Slorach (who had the excellent idea of employing a tracking hound,) Crabtree, or Blake, with the search narrowed by use of maps, geological surveys and a land office registry, thrown together during the trip from Wilton Street east. Every method of transportation was begged or borrowed for the occasion. Detective Callahan's inquiries with Miss Burdick's family indicated she had spent one Canadian summer on a farm somewhere east of the city, which solidified the idea to everyone's satisfaction that if Miss Burdick and the child had been anywhere it would be out in these parts.

Knox was spooked by how rapidly his men were set to task and the station house emptied, with nothing for him to do but wait, despite his attempts at giving extra help to Murdoch in hopes it would persuade him about the benefits of signing on with Station 5. He sat back sipping tea, deciding he would decide _later_ how he felt about all of this— whether or not he will be pleased or affronted by William Murdoch; the determining factor being the ultimate outcome if the lad was found, alive, for a vote of " _yea"_ or " _nay_ " to make the offer to Murdoch to stay with No. 5.

Murdoch took Callahan on as his responsibility, as well as the carriage, since the penalty for "damage" to either of those would be in his estimation, severe, and chose the target area he calculated as most promising: a set of lanes nearly perpendicular to the Don that lead off into small farmsteads; other teams took parallel areas to investigate.

The two detectives arrived at the start of their search area about two-thirty in the afternoon under bright sunshine, with the hum of the field bugs in the background. Murdoch and Callahan had said very little on the way, the conversation becoming uncomfortable when Murdoch, expecting he was being helpful by describing the evidence in scientific principles, began explaining about the fossil remains in this part of the Don Valley being at least 60 million years old and the layers of earth had specific chemical compositions and unique appearances under a microscope. That was how Murdoch determined the tie between soil samples from both bodies. Detective Callahan jumped past the evidence to vehemently deny a world of that age, sure that the entire earth was no more than 6,000 years old, after which he launched into biblical references and a sideways attack on William's own religious faith. Consequently they viewed the scenery in quietude as they traveled, even if not companionship.

Callahan broke the tension first. "Detective Murdoch. What are we really doing out here? I'm going batty just thinking about it. I heard what you told Inspector Knox, but when I saw all those square miles… there is too much area to cover."

"Not if we apply scien… er, logical principles. And there are only so many places where Miss Burdick and Mr. York could have been observed together. And there are only so many places that keep goats, since I now know that is the type of manure on her boots. That means there are only so many places the child could be, if he is alive. If he was hidden to keep him safe." Murdoch said the last phrase with emphasis.

"D' you really think that is possible?" Callahan asked, shading his face with a more effective tip of his bowler's hat brim, and looking out over various fields of tall grasses and crops.

"You gave me the idea. You said Miss Burdick was well thought of by the family and liked the child. Even if she was used as a tool for bitter ends, I believe she would not have harmed the child. If fact, I think she would have protected the child, perhaps at the cost of her own life. Whether Mr. York or even someone else killed her and rolled her body down the embankment, what if she was killed precisely because she would not disclose the boy's location? That would mean there is a possibility he is still alive. Possibly cared for by others, or…" Murdoch trailed off, out of delicacy.

"Or hidden so well no one will find him, or at least not in time." Callahan looked grim. "I understand what you are saying, Detective Murdoch."

"We still have three murders, counting Mrs. Emerson, the kidnapping and ransom, to definitely solve. But I believe that I can prove Mr. York killed Miss Burdick. The best clues we have to the whole puzzle are be out here. That is why we start here," He said, sweeping his arm in an arc. Murdoch hoped Detective Callahan appreciated the _"we."_ He looked down to check the map and chucked the horses into the first set of ruts leading towards a modest farmhouse, to begin the interview and search process.

By the end of three vexing hours, thunderclouds loomed on the horizon; Murdoch judged rain would appear by eight o'clock. The plan had been to return to Station No. 5 at 6 pm to compare notes and possibly tighten up the search parameters. It would not be sunset until nine, so Inspector Knox would have to decide how many men and how long the search would continue. Murdoch had planted the seed of an idea that volunteers might be employed, but rounding them up would be challenging as there were almost no telephones. He believed the idea that manpower could be _free_ just might be a strong enough appeal to overcome Knox's need for effort.

"This is the place." Murdoch squinted at a set of ramshackle structures, comprising a house, a hay barn, byre, open pens and several sheds. He had wanted to turn back in order to be at the Station House by 6 o'clock sharp, but Callahan insisted on crossing one more property off the list before returning. Murdoch knew that in an organized search, a no surer way to gum up the works was a team kiting off on their own and not following the plan. It delayed everything, caused chaos, even sparked a secondary search party for the missing team members. In a word, _slipshod_. The only reason he had given in was that the place was tantalizingly _perfect_ for what they were looking for. The owners were away, had hired a young man to come and feed and water the goats, but neighbors said the man was neglectful. So much so that the people next door heard loud distressing calls from the animals and threw down water and food for them twice in the last week, out of Christian duty and neighborliness no doubt. The stand of trees on the fence line was dense enough to screen the view, but Murdoch thought feeding the goats was probably to reduce the irritating noise as these two properties were unusually close. _No,_ they explained _, they did not see a child but why would they? They were not nosey people._ Hence a call on this property before turning the carriage around.

Murdoch dropped the reins and went directly to the cottage door to make a perfunctory knock, pushing his irritation down. No one locked their doors in these parts so he took it upon himself to make a quick check of the house before returning to investigate the outbuildings. The goats started a racket soon as the carriage wound its way up the earthen drive and crescendoed when the men left the carriage. Callahan skirted the goat pen with its open lean-to shelter (nowhere to hide a child) and began systematically with the structure farthest away from the house. Both men would work towards the center, a plan Murdoch favoured to maximize efficiency.

Once the goats could not see the men, they quieted. By the time there was only one building left to search, the hay barn, it was peaceful again. The barn had a small under- structure with a stall or two, some straw bales stored on the ground floor and was crowned by a high loft for hay. It appeared to be empty, but these two men, while hoping for a live child, had each acknowledged to themselves a small corpse was equally likely, so their searching was thorough as well as rapid. Since Callahan ascended to the last loft, Murdoch set himself to go up the ladder while the American searched the floor for evidence of a corpse, or a grave in the dirt floor…

Murdoch was at the top of the wooden ladder when Callahan shouted. "Murdoch, get down here. This is the place!" He heard sounds of creaking and thumping, and came down the slats fast. In the back of the barn was a high perimeter of double straw and hay bales, with one corner torn down. Within the hollowed center instead of a child, they found evidence of one having been there: toys, remains of apples and other vegetables, an empty water pail, soiled clothing, a corner used as a privy, and two suitcases.

"Murdoch. This _has_ to be the place…" He turned around twice, red-faced, before clenching his fists and shouting. "But where is the kid?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Do you think he is, umm… gone? Was taken from here and, well... or his…remains taken, then gotten rid of?" Detective Callahan went on without pause _or breath_ on this theme or variations of it (without ever saying the words dead, death or body) for the entire two minutes Murdoch spent examining the detritus and the suitcases. When he knew enough, he grabbed the other man's arm in a tight squeeze to get his attention.

"Detective Callahan. There is no blood evidence, no obvious, definitive evidence of a murder or any _death_ here. There is evidence of someone being here, quite alive, and very, _very_ recently. And I can confirm that Miss Burdick was here I believe, as this," he brought up an envelope, "was addressed to her." Murdoch's breathing was elevated and he felt his pulse rise.

The American grabbed the paper, and rummaged through the suitcases. "Yes. They _were_ here. Where is he now? We expected a slim chance of finding a live child," he looked balefully at Murdoch, and saw the Canadian meet his eye in acknowledgement. "Thought we'd find he…passed away, his er… remains… but for him to just be _missing.._."

"It is just as possible he was retrieved and is alive…there is another reward for his safe return, so the incentive is to keep him alive."

"But he is still missing." Callahan walked slowly out of the building to gaze unhappily at the acreage spread out horizon to horizon. His chest was tight and cold. "Some louse has him or has killed him. It is almost better to have found him than to think he is just gone. If I cannot find him alive, I gotta come back to Buffalo with his remains if only to quell some of the heartache of his family. But how can we ever find where the kidnapper buried him, in all this?"

William raised his voice to get through to Callahan. "Someone was here. It is possible to tell that because of the evidence—food such as apples, brown at known rates when exposed to air and become infested with insects as does other offal or waste, in series. The size of the bites in the apples leads me to believe they come from a child's mouth."

"We have not found anyone in any of the buildings. Where would he go? If _we_ can stumble on this place, then anyone who is looking for him for evil would have huge lead on finding him. Face it, Detective Murdoch. The kid is…gone."

Callahan walked dejectedly to the carriage, trying to keep Murdoch from seeing him weep. Murdoch felt his heart hammer in frustration and admitted to having this hope dampened by Callahan's despair. He checked his watch and dithered a moment about whether he should gather up the evidence and take it with him or leave it to examine _in situ_. He decided it should come for the sake of expediency and repacked the suitcases and found a small crate for the rest after quickly sketching where everything was positioned. He hauled all this to the carriage and asked for assistance. While Callahan brought himself under control and did as requested, Murdoch automatically brushed at the copious strands of plant material on his suit, while settling into the driver's seat.

As he turned the horses and rig to go back down the long lane to the main road, Murdoch began to visualize the scene and think out loud. "If someone retrieved the lad, we need to reconsider this case entirely. Not only is the boy missing but so is the ransom money. And there is the matter of Mrs. Emerson's death. How is that investigation going?" He was trusting that the Buffalonian's police instincts could be brought back to the fore by making him focus on a problem.

The carriage jostled hard in a rut while coming around. That seemed to bring Callahan out of his distraction and slowly engage in conversation. "We took finger marks of course, not that I am sure about what use they are in all cases, but found none we found useful. Mrs. Emerson was killed by someone slamming her head on the carved pineapple newel post in their foyer, within an hour, more or less, of when her husband called the police. One single hit, splitting her skull with a great deal of blood everywhere. It was very brutal." Even in the heat, Callahan blanched remembering the scene.

Murdoch could not contain himself in eagerness. " _Finger marks?_ The Buffalo force is using finger marks? Are the courts accepting that evidence?" Murdoch grappled to tuck the notion away for later. He had _no_ idea that was happening across the border and was so excited about the possibilities he almost let the conversation go off target. He cleared his throat. "Who are your suspects?"

"The kidnapper, therefore I am assuming it was Mr. York, as your constable Crabtree suggested…." Callahan ceased talking as the carriage stopped. "I still don't understand who killed _him…_ "

"Perhaps there is a third person involved, which also one of Constable Crabtree's speculations. Someone who may have actually killed both Mr. York _and_ Miss Burdick—used them both for the scheme." Murdoch was looking over his shoulder at how the sun was creating shadows. _Something is out of alignment_. He felt his skin prickle and abruptly changed topic. "Detective Callahan. How was the straw bale enclosure, _exactly_ when you first saw it? Were they taken apart and set aside from the outside, or just dragged or pushed?"

"The bales looked like they could have been pulled down from outside or pushed out from the inside just enough that someone could crawl out." Callahan answered.

Murdoch stilled the confused horses. "So, hear me out. The boy would have been lonely, bored, uncomfortable, hungry, thirsty-likely even had heard people come to feed the goats, may have cried out for help, but who would have heard him over that din? What if the lad finally moved the bales just enough to destabilize them. The drive for life is tremendous. What if he pushed through?"

"What do you mean?" Callahan asked.

"Look there. Notice how the crops are in neat rows, and there, angling off to the rear is a path through the vegetation. Someone passed through there not too long ago. Within a few hours I would judge. "

Callahan "Murdoch, that could be anything, deer…"

Securing the reins, Murdoch came off the carriage. "We should follow up on every lead, not give up. Surely that is why you came all this way, Detective Callahan."

The two men started racing along the field until gaining on the odd shadows trailing through the crops, stretching from the hayloft in a drunken line to the rear of the property. Murdoch looked at his map as they ran. There was a farmstead beyond through gently rolling green fields and the bent stems lead right to it.

# # #

 **Roll call - Saturday July 2** **nd**

Constable Hodge was busy pulling apart _Schnecken_ and feeding morsels of it to a giggling blonde boy as Inspector Brackenreid walked up to the high lobby desk of his Station House. Master Windsor Emerson was appearing thin, dehydrated, but no worse for wear after being tended to by Dr. Wallace and pronounced healthy. The youngster, scrubbed clean and decked in a sailor-suit picked out by Mrs. Brackenreid, was in the process of depositing a second gob of sticky walnuts on the stack of messages Hodge was valiantly trying to disperse to the intended recipients, but the boy was a distraction of the most captivating kind, encircled with new gawkers as the day shift reported in to work.

"Ahoy Constable Hodge! Looks like you have a mutineer there." Brackenreid reconnoitered the area, and saw Detectives Murdoch and Callahan were conferring at Murdoch's desk, leaving the young lad to fend off admirers. "Hodge, over here." Brackenreid motioned for the boy. "Let me take him over to my office while we wait for his father to arrive and claim him."

"Yes, sir." Hodge groaned with the lift. "Should be here by nine at the latest."

Brackenreid fetched a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped most of the mess off the boy's hands and face, bringing him into his office and installing him on the couch with a toy boat to occupy him, which the inspector "just happened to have" in his coat pocket. The emotions welling up as he looked at the boy might be unseemly but were genuine: It reminded him again about how his own son went missing and Murdoch brought him back, safe as houses. _That is no reason to give Murdoch a promotion to full detective,_ he had had to argue with Margaret at the time. _I can't promote him any time soon. It would be like I was repaying a personal favour, not like he actually earned it!_ He suspected Murdoch likely saw the logic of that, _even if my wife did not_ , which caused some friction in his household for months afterwards.

Last night when word came in that the boy was found in the root cellar of an empty farmhouse that had already been searched, there was quite a cheer rung up. It was dumb luck that Murdoch and Callahan found the trail from one farm to another in the grass, as the shelter the boy was found in was crossed off the search list in the early hours of the hunt. The boy explained that Miss Burdick had made a special 'fort' for them to play together in, and that he was to imagine giant game of hide- and- seek, and not to reveal himself until she came back for him. He found he just could not keep waiting and loneliness and thirst drove him to pull at the 'fort' until a portion came free.

Knox and Brackenreid spent some telephone-time congratulating themselves on good police work, which was really just a squabble over which station house would get the credit. Chief Constable Stockton decided it must go to Station House No. 5, since the leads developed out of investigating Miss Burdick's death and the boy was, after all, found in their precinct. Stockton also said _, "You're in luck, Thomas. I believe Knox will take Murdoch off your hands as his new acting detective, and will be making an offer tomorrow_."

The inspector wondered if Murdoch had already received the call, and if he accepted. Murdoch who had taken off yesterday with two constables, a carriage _and_ the American.  Murdoch who racked up a hefty overtime charge for Crabtree and Blake. Murdoch who was already importuning about using a new investigation tool, something called finger marks that they are using in the States... Brackenreid thought it was no wonder the Chief Constable assumed Murdoch was not wanted by Station House No. 4 considering the downside of dealing with such an odd duck.

 _Bloody Hell!_ _Murdoch_ _, who was probably the only person capable of finding the lad_ … He thought to himself: _Thomas Brackenreid was not a fool and was capable of doing the right thing, if only it was not too late._

Constable Crabtree brought in his tea and morning paper while Brackenreid read the overnight reports and bulletins, and then prepared the day's assignments. While he sorted the messages he took notice of the front page of the Toronto Gazette, splashed with the story (rather exaggerated story) of "Baby Emerson's" rescue with Detective Callahan and Inspector Knox shaking hands with the boy hoisted behind them. The theme was cross-border cooperation, etcetera. He grunted and noticed it was time for inspection and report.

Young Emerson stood at attention in line with the rest of the men, one hand up to hold onto Crabtree and one to hold onto Blake, but as his four- year- old ability to stay still was in short supply, report was brief and to the point. New orders for searching for Mr. York's killer were handed out. Brackenreid gave the lad back to Hodge and Crabtree and went to confer with Murdoch and Callahan who were still huddled, having never made it out to witness morning report, a breach of protocol Brackenreid was feeling generous enough to overlook, at least this one time.

Brackenreid stuck his head into Murdoch's door and smiled, with a knock on the door fame getting the men's attention. "Good morning. Detective Callahan, I understand Buffalo Mayor Bishop and Police Superintendent Morganstern are very happy with you today. And Detective Murdoch, I have to say, 'good work' closing the death of Miss Burdick and your efforts in finding the boy, er…even if Knox stole the credit…." He gave a brief grimace of empathy, before grinning broadly again in good humour. "So, gentlemen, other than waiting on Master Emerson going back to the arms of his family in Buffalo, what are your next moves?" His words were met with odd flat looks from both men.

"Sir. It may not be that simple." Murdoch offered. He felt a twist again in his gut and his heart was racing after what he and Callahan had been discussing.

"What? Why the long faces? All's well that ends well for the boy, is that not right?" He looked from face to face, seeing the men appeared tired and looking like they had not slept much, although they were shaved and presentable. "Between you two, you solved the murders of Mrs. Emerson and Miss York, a kidnaping and rescued the missing child. You both should try to bask in the glory while you can because soon enough, Detective Callahan, you will have a new case to deal with, and Detective Murdoch, you still need to find out who did Mr. York in. Our various masters and the public have short memories for what we do successfully…." The inspector was unsure why he was not getting smiles in return.

Callahan and Murdoch shared a guarded look and Murdoch reached around to close the door. "Sir. Do you remember joking this case was about love _and_ money?"

"You were exactly right, Inspector." continued Callahan. It had taken all night to sort through the evidence and he had argued heatedly with Murdoch about the conclusions, but ultimately admitted Murdoch was correct in his approach. As soon as he capitulated on that, the two of them worked well together, right through the hours.

Murdoch explained. "Late last night Detective Callahan and I finished going through all the evidence we gathered yesterday. Miss Burdick did indeed truly love young Emerson. In fact, by reading letters she received and ones she did not yet have the opportunity to post, we think that Mrs. Emerson actually gave her son to Miss Burdick for safe keeping." Murdoch handed the letters to his superior.

"What? That makes no sense!" Brackenreid wondered if Murdoch finally went crackers and took the American "over the falls" with him.

Murdoch continued. "Sir, Dr. Wallace says that the youngster had gotten pretty roughed up in the past. Bruises, newly healing broken bones."

"Some of that must be from the kidnapping," argued the inspector.

"The doctor says no. Happened before then, and more than once. Sir, the boy was beaten. Badly. The letters indicate Mrs. Emerson may have asked Miss Burdick to remove her son to get him away from the father." Murdoch's face was a mask. "That explains why the kidnapping was so excellently done—because there wasn't one."

Callahan watched Brackenreid glance through the letters and filled in. "I did some digging of my own, made some calls, sent some telegrams last night. It seems Mrs. Emerson's family has the deep pockets, not her husband. _They_ paid the ransom note, which I will remind you was mailed to them, not the husband. Also that Mrs. Emerson was not close with her parents and siblings lately, hadn't been seen much etcetera, her husband claiming illnesses. I am afraid that Mrs. Emerson may have been abused as well, or at least there was something going on in that house that was not as it should be. Even if it is lawful to beat your wife and children, I find it…distasteful to return this child to him, even though it will be my unhappy duty."

Brackenreid sympathized. "I see why you both look so sour."

Murdoch leaned in. "Sir, couldn't there be some way to let Mrs. Emerson's family in on our suspicions…"

"No. Not without proof. We'd all be out on our ears for defamation or custodial interference, especially since this is such a high-profile case now," said Brackenreid, grateful now his station house was not publically attached to this tragedy. His thoughts turned darker. "So then why did York murder Mrs. Emerson if there was no kidnapping? And bloody hell, where is the damn money!?"

Murdoch felt himself suddenly flush. He gasped and riffled though his notes excitedly. "We overlooked something. Mr. York could _not_ have murdered Mrs. Emerson! We have witnesses who place him in Toronto on Thursday. Even if there are gaps in the timeline there is no way he could have been seen in Toronto _and_ been in Buffalo during the required hours. We are still looking for witnesses, on either side of the border, who can confirm Miss Burdick traveling from Buffalo to Toronto with the child, and if a man also accompanied them."

Callahan jumped in. "So where does he enter this case?"

Murdoch looked at his chalkboard for a long moment, letting his thoughts chase each other. "What if he _was_ her paramour, but turned out to be an opportunist as well? The ransom was paid on Friday, and we have no knowledge of Mr. York's whereabouts on that day, only that he was not involved in any of his usual habits. What if he knew about the child, took a chance at grabbing some money and then ran across the border with it?"

"Then when Miss Burdick finds out she gets angry or fears for the kid's safety, so she hides him from York, who wants to give him back perhaps…" Callahan added.

The inspector chimed in: "Or extort more money…"

"And she is beaten to death because she won't tell where the kid is? Or _will_ tell the authorities about the ransom extortion? We have gone in a circle!" Callahan said in frustration.

Sharp knocking on the door made each of them jump before Constable Crabtree announced: "Sirs, Mr. Emerson and his in laws are here for the child and want to speak with the detectives, and I have some messages for you."

The inspector waved Crabtree in the room and accepted the pages. "Did you say the grandparents came as well? That is interesting."

"Yes, sir." Crabtree was drawn to the chalk board and started reading. "Sirs, I know it is not my place, but I could not help overhearing what Detective Murdoch and Detective Calahan have been discussing, and of course I have been reading some of the correspondence as it has come and gone," he blushed at confessing he was reading, but had after all volunteered to do the extra running, calling and fetching. "What if the money was engineered, if you will by Mrs. Emerson for the care of her child? She could have written the ransom note and had someone pick up the cash and ferry it somewhere to support her son and Miss Burdick, or even herself if she was going to leave her husband."

The inspector let out a hiss of frustration. "That is quite fanciful, constable. But we need proof, not whimsical stories. We have many more questions than answers and this kidnapping scheme has more holes in it than Swiss cheese!"

Murdoch continued. "No, gentlemen. We only have two questions. First: If Mrs. Emerson was _not_ killed by Mr. York and _not_ killed during the commission of a kidnapping, who killed her? Remember: motive, means and opportunity. Second: Where is the money? Who benefits? Not Mr. York, it seems. Not Miss Burdick."

Murdoch gave Callahan a quick stare before rising into action. "Constable, we have some things for you to do right away. Keep that door closed. Use the phone in here and get another Constable to help you if you need it…" The three men talked rapidly to Crabtree who did his best to keep up…


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **Remainder of the day - Morning Saturday July 2** **nd**

A happy scene greeted the three police officers who emerged from Murdoch's doorway, with a circle whose center featured a thin woman and two elegantly dressed men in deepest black frock coats attending to young Emerson, with a wider arc of constables viewing the reunification. The boy clung to his grandmother's black summer mourning clothes, worn by a woman in her fifties, with upswept graying hair and very bright blue eyes set in a worried face. The adults looked ill at ease, probably having never been in any place like a station house in their whole lives, nor consorted with the likes of the police. The man who was obviously Mr. Emerson appeared to be the most disconcerted, picking up his son, wincing, and putting him back down again, looking at his hand. One of the Constables offered to help him pull out a sliver of wood, and in a flash it was gone and a small bandage in place, with Mr. Emerson's thanks.

No one noticed the Inspector or two detectives approaching until the boy spied them and broke into a smile. He reached over to them, waving his toy boat, while shouting "Ahoy!" excitedly over and over again.

"You must be Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. And you must be Mr. Millard Emerson." The inspector greeted them, offering a handshake. "Welcome to Toronto and Station House No. 4. I am Inspector Thomas Brackenreid. This is Buffalo Police Detective Patrick Callahan whom I believe you already know, and Toronto Constabulary Detective William Murdoch. May I say for all of us we are so pleased to give you your son and grandson back. And that we are also so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, Inspector," said Mrs. Fargo, looking down at her grandson fondly. "My husband and I are so very grateful, we cannot express…" she began to weep quietly and her husband brought her close.

Mr. Fargo consoled his wife for a second before continuing. "Yes. We thought we would never see him again, to lose our daughter and her son in a single day… horrible."

When Mr. Fargo could not go on, Mr. Emerson took up speech. "Yes. So very happy. Have you found the persons responsible for this tragedy?"

The inspector nodded at Murdoch, who exited with Callahan, and turned to the family. _This is going to be the tricky part, as lying usually is, God forgive me…._ "I understand you have kept a close watch on the investigation, getting updates and the like. I can assure you we have proof that two people and only two people were responsible for these crimes and they are now both dead. Perhaps you would like to come into my office with the boy where it is more comfortable? We can have our discussion in there. I can even offer you some refreshment from your long journey as it will be a while before you can travel home. There are some forms to fill out and we have a few questions for you, we think will help with closing the investigation at our end, I am sure you will understand. This way please." He opened his office door and managed to make clear to the rest of the men they had better get back to their duties with no more slouching around, and politely asked Constable Blake for four more mugs of fresh, cool water.

Murdoch and Callahan spoke by the bottom of the staircase leading to the upper floors of the station house. "How much time do you think we have?" Callahan asked.

Instead of answering, Murdoch leveled his gaze at Callahan. "You specifically asked all three of them to come to Toronto when you notified the family of their boy's rescue, didn't you? That was not necessary for reunification of the family. Why did you do that?"

Callahan tugged at his collar and tie and winked. "Let's say a gut feeling. You saw how they interacted with each other. Sometimes it is wise to stir the pot, see what else will rise up… And we needed the time to find the truth." With his hat off, his freckles ended just at his previous hairline. "Speaking of truth. I suppose there are no forms to fill out or paper work, are there?" He paused. "Tell me, how much longer do you think we have to nail this down?"

Murdoch smiled. "Knowing the Inspector, he can keep them regaled with stories for as long as we need. The problem is how to consolidate enough evidence to bring to Mr. and Mrs. Fargo about their daughter and grandson for the Inspector to have that, very difficult, conversation. According to the train schedule, the next passenger cars back to Buffalo leave Toronto at twelve thirty. Building in time for a carriage to the station from here, getting tickets and boarding, they would have to leave from here no later than eleven forty-five." He looked at his pocket watch and saw he had neglected to wind it so it needed synching up with the wall clock again. "I make that two and a half more hours. Will that be enough time for your men to complete the new investigation, conduct searches, and interview the persons on our list?"

# # #

Constable Crabtree knocked on the inspector's door, bringing in another spot of tea for him and his guests, and took the opportunity to hand Brackenreid a short note, after depositing the tea tray on the sideboard. "Here we are sirs, and madam. And this," he flourished a napkin, "is another treat. A youngster with good taste in his pastries." He revealed a sticky bun which set Master Emerson to giggling again, that is until his father gave him a dark look which erased the child's smile swiftly and sent him to his grandmother's lap again.

"Sir. Detective Callahan and Detective Murdoch have those papers for Mr. Emerson to look over. I was asked to escort him to the, uh, conference room. May I?" Crabtree was nervous about this part.

Thomas Brackenreid knew about two things: war and fishing. What they were about to do was much more like fishing. You have to choose the bait, get it in front of the fish, get the fish to bite and set the hook, all before reeling him in. He cast an eye over the family from Buffalo. "Yes. That is a fine idea. And then I can go ahead with my conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, if that is all right with everyone? It is all a formality, you understand. To officially assign the perpetrators to the crimes and close any further investigation in Canada."

Announcing that brought three separate reactions from the adults: protective anger from Mr. Fargo, tears from Mrs. Fargo, and if he did not miss his guess, relief from Mr. Emerson.

Mr. Fargo straightened up, and spoke crisply and clearly. "Our family has no other goal."

Brackenreid was satisfied. He re-read the note from Crabtree and tried to keep disgust off his face. _Time to find out the truth then._

 _ **Interrogation Room**_

"Come this way sir, and wait in here. The detectives will be by presently." Crabtree situated Mr. Emerson in a chair at the large rectangular table in the interrogation room, and exited as Murdoch and Callahan entered. The constable gave several sets of papers to each man in passing and parked himself by the grille, in hopes of witnessing the interview that was about to take place. The gorge rose in his throat when he thought about what had already been discovered about Mr. Emerson, having been the one to make and received countless more phone messages and telegrams in the last hour. The next part was going to be horrendous.

 _ **Inspector Brackenreid's Office**_

As soon as the door closed, Inspector Brackenreid moved from behind his desk, to sit eye to eye with Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, his face set ion a grim visage. He was picked to do this part because he was the senior officer and because it was going to be delicate and dangerous. He was going to try out some of his political instincts with a wealthy, powerful, protective man, who might not like the truth. "Mr. and Mrs. Fargo, you have had a terrible week full of nasty, tragic shocks. Unfortunately I may have another one for you. We have information that your son in law, Mr. Emerson, has been abusing his son, and that your daughter sent him away with Miss Burdick to keep him safe. No, she did not kidnap him, in fact may have given her life to protect him. I have no gentle way to say this, but we think your son in law found out…" He opened the note and started to read…

 _ **The Interrogation Room**_

Murdoch and Callahan had taken the case in step by step increments building to this moment. Mr. Millard Emerson started out calmly and jovially enough, taking his seat as a self-assured man of business, in control of his future, going along with the interview as if it was inconvenient but necessary for the crimes to be so firmly tied to Miss Burdick and Mr. York as to be impossible to unknot. He certainly treated the detectives as glorified secretaries or sycophants, leaning on his every word. That was until he was caught out in the first lie: his story about finding his wife's body then discovering his son was missing, and the timeline that went with it. Mr. Emerson's smile began to seem more forced.

Detective Callahan ignored Mr. Emerson as he posed his question instead to Detective Murdoch. "It's kinda odd, don't you think? No one remembers him searching or calling for his son?"

"Quite odd. Yes. I understand it was the servant's day off, but I am given to understand the houses are not very far apart. Not one witness heard you calling for your son. No neighbor recalls you came to their house seeking information…" Murdoch answered.

Emerson still smiled. "My neighbors and I do not eavesdrop on each other. I can't say that I was shouting, but I certainly looked for my son…" He leaned forward on the table, hands clasped.

Callahan looked pensive, still ignoring Mr. Emerson. "I wonder if we're also going to find out that his son was long gone out of the house before his wife was killed. Oh, look at this." He brought out one of the pages that Constable Crabtree hand to him and placed it carefully on the table. "It seems we have a witness that saw Miss Burdick and your son at the docks at Niagara- on- the- Lake boarding for Toronto. Late Thursday morning."

"Once we knew _when_ to look, morning instead of afternoon, it was much easier to find witnesses." William dropped his gaze, eyes blackened now in anger, and allowed sarcasm to creep into his voice. He pointed at Emerson. " _You_ knew your son was gone. Your wife told you, didn't she?" That got Emerson to twitch. "You knew, or you thought you knew, who had your son. And possibly how long it had been since he had left that morning. So why search for him at your home? He wasn't going to be there, was he?" Murdoch kept up an insistent tone and watched as Emerson pushed back from the table to listen in increasing indignation. _Yes,_ Murdoch thought when he saw the change in the suspect's demeanor, _we have him!_

"We have letters your wife wrote to Miss Burdick. Those letters indicated your wife's concern about your heavy-handedness with your son." Callahan said and both detectives watched for more reactions. What they got was pure defensiveness, but no denial.

"My in laws are aware of the rights of a man over his family and furthermore would never support a public scandal." Emerson finally erased the smile, crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his chin out.

"We have the ransom note. It was made with a straight edge to disguise the writing, but I am sure we will find similar samples of paper and ink, perhaps the ruler itself in your possessions," added the American detective.

Emerson's face was colouring in anger. His breath was heaving, but he presented himself as aggrieved and not particularly threatened by the evidence. "Surely common enough materials. You have no proof that I wrote that note, committed extortion, nor anything else. I do not have to explain myself to you. Now, I really must insist…"

Callahan could not resist slapping the next piece of evidence on the table. "And we found the money! Hidden in your golf bag at the Park Club. That was the best you could do?"

"I know my rights. I don't think any of this will hold up in court. My in laws will provide counsel for me, which I am now asking for." Emerson was still putting up an aggravated front.

Murdoch took the next turn. "Then there is that nasty sliver you have in your hand. I noticed it when you picked up your son and it pained you so much you had to put him back down. I have a rather nasty one myself—I got it coming down a ladder yesterday. You knew your wife sent your son away, perhaps she was even leaving you…and then in a fit of rage you pushed your wife's headinto the stair railing in the front hall of your house. You probably didn't even know that's where you got the sliver, did you? We collected that sliver from your hand as evidence and I am guessing the species of tree will match the woodwork in your home."

Callahan went on. "You couldn't have found your wife, recently dead, a victim of a terrible crime, when you arrived at your house in the afternoon. Your son was long gone by Thursday morning. How could she have been killed by York or Miss Burdick or anyone involved in a kidnapping? There _was_ no kidnapping, was there? So your wife could not have been killed by any kidnappers, now could she?..."

All the rage fled and Emerson went rapidly to pale.

# # #

 **Remainder of the day – Afternoon to Evening Saturday July 2** **nd**

After all the chaos and excitement this morning, the sudden quiet in the station house was appreciated most by William. He had bid the Fargo family good bye and saw to it that Detective Callahan would be able to escort Mr. Emerson back to the States in chains as soon as a guard detail from Buffalo was assembled to secure his transit. Callahan extracted a promise that Murdoch would visit Buffalo if for no other reason than to see how the detective's department used finger marks. William considered what it had been like to work with the fusty American. No matter. Callahan was good at his job and they had eventually agreed to disagree on almost everything else, coming to an understanding, even appreciation of each other.

William had a moment to gather his thoughts and reflect on how the case came together. Despite his best efforts he was still unwilling to rest until Mr. York's death was accounted for. He began by erasing one side of the chalk board and started over with evidence about Mr. York's death, a wrinkle at the side of his mouth in concentration.

Constable Crabtree interrupted with the afternoon post. "Thank you, constable," William offered distractedly, then straightened and caught Crabtree's eye. He put his hands behind his back and faced the other man. "Constable Crabtree. I want to thank you personally for your efforts with these cases this week; your work has been quite helpful. And welcome again to Station House No. 4."

Crabtree smiled and blushed, feeling that this understated praise was somehow possibly the best he'd ever received, and certainly the most treasured. "Thank you sir. That means a lot, coming from you. Quite the week, hasn't it been sir?" He started to read what Murdoch had scribed on the board, remembering the other information he was asked to deliver... "Sir. We have some new leads, witnesses who saw Mr. York in the company of a man the afternoon of his death. Medium height and build, dark hair, maybe in his thirties. Similar to a description of a man seen by the Don River." As soon as he said that, Crabtree smiled and blushed. "The description is so vague as to be meaningless, isn't it sir?"

"Yes, it is. I think you will find that witnesses are fallible as well, not like solid evidence. Evidence cannot lie or be scared off or change its mind…" Murdoch went back to the board. "I have an explanation for everything else, probably with enough proof that Mr. York killed Miss Burdick. But what was his motive?"

"And, sir, why did he feel the need to obliterate her face? That seems so…brutal, so cold." Crabtree supposed a shudder.

"We can only speculate, but perhaps he wanted to delay anyone identifying her, or even to have his crime be attributed to another killer. That story of another young woman who was found dead with her face disfigured has been rather luridly portrayed in the papers. He might have been frightened, acted on impulse or instinct to save his own neck, hoping to hide what he had done. Without information on Miss Burdick from the Buffalo police, we would be hard-pressed to know who she is." Murdoch imagined the scene of her death, the acts that lead up to her being bludgeoned with a rock, and shook those visions away. It would not do to lose composure in front of the new man. "We now know there was no kidnapping, no money. So what was his motivation? A lover's quarrel? I posited that Miss Burdick gave up her life to protect the boy, but why did she need to do that?"

"Sir. You said evidence does not change its mind, but people do, don't they? There was more than one pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, wasn't there?" Crabtree removed his helmet and leaned against the wall, putting his hand under his chin.

"What do you mean?" William let a small part of his mind process this new idea, while keeping the rest focused.

"The reward, sir. A king's ransom for returning the child unharmed. Miss Burdick, and Mr. York if he was indeed part of the scheme to get the child away from Mr. Emerson, well… there was no money to be had for them, was there? We'll never know how Mrs. Emerson planned to address that long-term as she is deceased herself. But the reward her father, Mr. Fargo put out. What if Mr. York wanted to give the child back—either out of misplaced concern that a child should be with family or, more venally, to get the reward?"

"Go on." Murdoch was fully engaged now.

"Sir. What if Miss Burdick gets wind of this and that was why she hid the boy. She would not give him up and died trying to protect him. But you are right sir, I still don't know who killed Mr. York and why. You don't suppose it was a random thing, do you?" Crabtree asked. When he looked up for an answer, he saw Murdoch staring into the middle distance, holding his breath.

Murdoch sighed. "I don't believe in coincidence, constable."

"Perhaps Mr. York met with a co-conspirator in the scheme for trying to get a reward for returning the child and they had a falling out, either over the fact that they had no child to turn over…Or the fact that Mr. York killed Miss Burdick…" Crabtree was imagining several scenarios, more elaborate than the next, with romances, conspiracies and double crosses. "It's a horrible idea, really, the thought that Mr. Fargo's offer of a reward for return of his grandson may have led to the death of the woman who was trying to rescue him…and could have sealed his grandson's fate as well.."

Murdoch hastened to dampen the younger man's enthusiasm, having discovered in the last week the endless variety of fancy Crabtree possessed. "Yes, constable, it certainly would be, but such speculation is out of place. However I will put that on the list of possible motivations. Since the child has been found, we can go back to the more mundane. For now we have no good answer for Mr. York's demise. But you have given me some new ideas to pursue. I am going to have to look more closely at the evidence that does _not_ tie Miss Burdick to Mr. York—it will be in there that we can find clues to whomever killed him, as you can see I have started already. I am thinking we need to look more closely at the soils where Miss Burdick was found to separate them out from what was found on Mr. York. How are you with a shovel?"

"A shovel sir? You mean digging?"

"Yes, digging."

# # #

The telephone lines fairly crackled in the inspector's office. "Thomas!" Chief Constable Stockton was never shy about expressing his intentions or his feelings. Today was no exception, Brackenreid noticed. "What is happening here? I just got a message that you are having Mr. Emerson arrested! What do you think you are playing at? And to crown it all, I also just got off the phone with Station House five. Acting Detective Murdoch has turned down the promise of promotion there. Knox is furious, absolutely beside himself! Murdoch said he didn't think he could work-out there. So now we are stuck with the Murdoch problem, _again_!"

" _Might have had something to do with my mentioning how much Murdoch likes off-hand jocularity, or enjoys close supervision?"_ the inspector muttered under his breath in admittedly evil satisfaction.

The Chief Constable went on for quite a while…

Brackenreid brought himself back to his superior on the other end of the line and tried to sound sensible to undercut some of Stockton's bluster. "The Americans are going to arrest Mr. Emerson for his wife's murder—it is their case and they will have to prove it, but they have physical evidence and a time-line. He's the only one with means, motive and opportunity. He discovered the scheme for hiding his son, killed his wife in a rage or out of revenge and then we believe decided to try and get money out of it for himself."

The Chief Constable was quiet allowing Brackenreid to continue. "No one would ever believe Mrs. Emerson would have voluntarily handed her son to Miss Burdick. All the while Mr. Emerson was the one who arranged for a ransom drop, probably got some crony to do the deed for a few dollars, and then all that lovely cash came right to him. The Buffalo police found the ransom money at Mr. Emerson's club—that was the last button in the case. I have gotten a phone calls from the Buffalo Mayor, and American Consulate thanking us, as well as several new papers asking for stories. As a courtesy to the Fargo family we will not be releasing anything to the press, and I can say they are very, shall we say, _grateful_. To the tune of a thousand dollars!" Brackenreid took a deep breath and went for broke.

"As for Detective Murdoch, here's what I suggest is going to happen. Station House No. 4 is going to announce their new permanent detective is one William Murdoch. And the constabulary is going to correct an oversight by giving him partial back-pay on his last six month's wages, about two hundred dollars in total the way I calculate it." He pulled the earpiece away from his head as it exploded with noise from the other end. "Chief Stockton. The Fargo family was persuaded to make a very large donation to the Toronto Constabulary general fund, since we told them they could not give it to Murdoch directly as it would violate ethics." He gazed at the cheque with more zero's than he had ever seen before. "One thousand dollars! They could not be dissuaded. Think of the two hundred as a finder's fee for Murdoch, if you will, since the whole chit might rightfully belong to him in any other circumstances. He won't even be getting close to a standard finder's fee as it is; it's a bargain all around, don't you think?" He listened while the Chief Constable erupted again and then walked his way back through his initial objection until he was quite pleased with himself and made it sound as if it was his Stockton's own magnanimous suggestion and elegant solution. _Might even get a mention of the donation in the papers_ …Brackenreid sighed about the politics of the job, but at the moment was just happy it was approved. "I'll sort out the details of Murdoch's new job here and I will tell him the good news before the end of the day…" _He may be a tea-totaling prig of a papist, but he's ours…_

The inspector poured himself a drink from the decanter and set himself wearily back down in his chair. ' _Sooner started, sooner done_ ' _indeed!_ He looked at the personnel file in front of him, and paused while scanning information on Murdoch's original application to the constabulary. Brackenreid gave a little grunt and swirled his scotch in the air in a vague salute to his empty office. _"Happy birthday, Murdoch!"_ he whispered before downing the glass.

 **Epilogue**

 **7: 55 pm Saturday July 2** **nd**

William caught the door to the library just before closing, managing to slip in, return his books and locate the ones on reserve for him, just in time to beat the locks being set. The day had been confusing and he was exhausted, but his mind could not slow down, not knowing what to address first, and still not exactly certain how he felt about all of it other than uncharacteristically bewildered. For the first time in a long time he thought he felt a sense of connection or validation, something he thought he had to give up when he left the Jesuits so many years before, and it was paradoxically, _unsettling._ Unfortunately in his haste he did not see another patron, also in a rush, and the two collided while trying to exit the same door. The rather silly smile he was aware he could not keep off his face, just imagining the new Morgan and White tires he could finally afford for his bicycle, did not help matters.

"Oh! I am so very sorry. Please accept my apologies for my unforgivable clumsiness," William uttered sheepishly while picking up the fallen books. He was momentarily distracted by the title of one of them, a book on archeology he had also reserved but which had already been spoken for. He straightened the pile and handed it off to a young woman with dark chestnut hair who was vaguely familiar to him as another patron of the library, now that he saw her face clearly. He blushed immediately when he caught himself staring. "I, er... here are your books, Miss. Are you unharmed?"

"I am fine. Thank you for your assistance," she said, looking up.

William saw her smile boldly at him, raising his discomfort but adding a little flutter of _something else_ …

"I have seen you here before, have I not?" she asked.

"Well, perhaps. We do seem to enjoy similar taste in reading…" He gestured to the archeology tome and was captured further by the remainder of her selections, all of which he had read at one time or another.

She shifted her books to one arm and stuck her hand out. "It is very pleasant to make your acquaintance. My name is Miss Liza Milner. And you are?"

 ****END****

 _ **Ahh—but it is still the beginning!**_ _Thank you for coming along for the ride. Hope you enjoyed this "origins" story and thank you to EnlightenedSkye & "Master of Tides" for at least (unconsciously) triggering me to look at how the characters meet. I chose these dates and meetings out of thin air—hopefully not making any continuity errors in the process, and if so I beg forgiveness but the temptation was too grand. _

_**Please review—I am particularly interested to see if these "Origins" 'work' for you—and I put in as many as I could without overt cheating. I love it when you write and appreciate any and all feedback, negative as well as positive. What other "origins" intrigue you that you might like to see explained? I will respond!**_

 **Author's Notes:**

 **My primary beta reader "Dutch" gets full co-writing credits on this one, and thank you "46-Her" and**

 **RomanticNerd for your valuable, last minute-critiques that rescued the plot.**

1) " _Olly Olly Oxen Free"_ and its various spellings, is a catchphrase/colloquialism used in children's games to indicate when the players who are hiding can come out.

Mary Maud Burdick is a real person whom I do not know. That is the name of my mother's biological mother, who gave my mom up for adoption. I decided to honour her 2) as the hero of this piece.

3) I borrowed the names of Mr. and Mrs. Fargo – a prominent Buffalo NY family—for the purposes of the story. And yes, that is Fargo from the Wells-Fargo company. When Mr. Fargo died his residential estate (an entire city block) was chopped up by his sons and sold off in single home lots, and the actual building materials of his mansion were cannibalized and repurposed into the new houses which were put up at a rate of one (or more) a month—foundation to moving in within 30 days!. Exotic woodwork, floors, fireplace mantle-pieces and stained glass, the whole shot. Talk about reduce, reuse and recycle… _Information from Historic Homes tour of the Old Fargo Estate in Buffalo NY._


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